


Over the Rainbow

by EventHorizon



Series: Lets You Know You're Alive [5]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Family, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Skipthur, Weddings, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 301,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuation of <i>We Are What We Are</i>, in which we move forward with family drama, wedding plans and further London-Fitton shenanigans...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft lay in Lestrade’s arms for a very long time, simply listening to his beloved breathe and letting his mind go as blank as he possibly could.  Everything… he had held _everything_ in his hands and let it slip through his fingers.   Though not all of it.  The slow stroke of Lestrade’s own hand up and down his arm said he still held the most precious piece in his palm.  But it was also clear that his Gregory was not entirely pleased with the change of circumstances.  Circumstances that Mycroft did not have the full details to properly evaluate.

      “Gregory?”

      “Hm?”

      “Would you describe to me the events that occurred while I was away?  I feel this is something I should know.”

      “Oh.  You want me to start the night you left?”

      “I think that is best.”

      “Ok… once you and Sam left the room, we tried to figure out just why you were so off your head, but that really didn’t go anywhere.  I mean… it was just my limit line of beer and half a piece of pizza that Arthur had dabbed away pretty much every bit of grease it had.  It was a big day, you know.  I finally got some freedom and was using it, Arthur and Sherlock had a case…”

      “A case?”

      “Perfect thing for Arthur… mannequin stolen from a shop window about a year ago.  Good and cold and they solved it in an afternoon.  Had themselves a right old day of being detectives and Arthur was glowing he was so happy.  So, people were in a good mood and wanted to celebrate.  Sam and John said it was ok for me to have a little treat, so I couldn’t understand why you got so angry.”

Was there ever a time when a request for more information brought him anything but a greater ache?  A family celebration, for highly valid and wonderful reasons and he sliced cleanly through the shared joy like a scythe through a field of grass.  Perhaps that was his true identity – the Grim Reaper of Joy.  No, his true identity was far worse, because his actions impacted more than that single night.

      “And… Arthur didn’t take it well.  He got very quiet, and I mean quiet for someone like me, not quiet for Arthur.   He never really came out of it either.  It was like there was a huge raincloud over his head; he didn’t want to do much and didn’t even take a lot of pleasure out of cooking, if you can believe it.  Then, after he and Martin went to Sam’s… he just couldn’t stop crying.  Went to bed in tears and woke up the same way.  He’s better now, but you can tell he’s still taking things hard.  I think… I think he believed it was sort of magic that you found your brother again and there’d be a happily ever after.  That’s not on you, love.”

Perhaps not, however, it was he who destroyed Arthur’s lovely dream.  How horribly the boy would hurt from Sherrinford’s exile and subsequent flight; despite his brother’s foolishness, Arthur had come to care for him as one of their circle and a break in that circle would pain Arthur greatly.  However, Sherrinford’s decision was not something he would hold himself accountable for.  Not in the least.  Much.  His brother _chose_ to run away rather than face the situation in a mature fashion, as per his normal habits.  But Sherrinford would not flee if he thought the situation was salvageable.  That much Mycroft strongly suspected and it was _not_ an easy admission.  Sherrinford would fight back and keep fighting if he believed there was something left to fight for.  But, was it so hurtful to admit to a lack of trust?  It was honest and could not be considered unwarranted for their situation.  His Gregory had stated explicitly that he had lacked trust at points in their relationship and it had only spurred Mycroft to work harder to regain that trust, though the battle was a long and damaging one for both of them.  Sherrinford could have done the same.  He could have taken up the struggle and worked to earn trust and forgiveness, but he did not.  That cowardice Mycroft refused to own, though… though it was perhaps out-of-bounds on his part to have expressed _that_ sentiment in _that_ particular way and at _that_ particular time.

      “Mycroft?  You doing ok?”

      “I honestly cannot give a suitable answer to that question.”

      “I understand that.  A lot went on while you were gone and it takes time slog through it all.  Sherlock… he still hasn’t worked through it.  He’s off-kilter and I’m not sure what to say or do to help him with it.  John doesn’t either.  We have no idea what’s going on in his head, but maybe you being back will help kick something loose that he’s willing to share.  His brain gets all twisty with you around, so I’ll tell John to bring His Lordship over for dinner or something and see if anything catches fire.”

Even Sherlock… that was unexpected.  Or not.  The situation was absolutely unpredictable, for nothing of the sort had ever happened to either of them.  But no, that was not true.  He _had_ suffered Sherrinford’s abandonment once before.  Sherlock found a brother he never knew then lost him in the blink of an eye and there was no predicting even what information he might be using for his current analyses.  Damnation!

      “Let us hope that is the case.  I do not enjoy the thought of Sherlock burdened by a situation he cannot easily comprehend or mentally reconcile, especially if he is not actively seeking the help of those he knows can provide it.”

      “I agree.  So…”

An unfamiliar ringtone sounded and Mycroft lifted his head to find the source, realizing it was Lestrade’s mobile, which was currently being lifted from its place attached to Lestrade’s bed and up to the Detective Inspector’s ear.  That his lover had answered it in the middle of a discussion of such importance made Mycroft a little uneasy as it could only be a communication of significance.

      “Arthur!  Good to hear from you!  Yes… yes, I am… No, I can’t have a bubble bath yet… I promise… John will promise, too, I’m sure…  How’s Martin?... That sounds like fun!... Look, Arthur there’s someone here who wants to say hello.  Hold on a minute…”

Lestrade passed the phone to Mycroft, who suffered both a hesitation and eagerness as he accepted it and raised it to speak.

      “Arthur, my boy.  How I have missed the sound of your voice.”

      “Mycroft.  Oh.  Yes, well… hi.”

The older Holmes nearly dropped the phone since his body suddenly experienced a complete loss of vitality hearing the flat and unhappy tone in Arthur’s voice.

      “And are you well?  I hope you met with no unanticipated surprises when you returned home.”

      “Everything’s fine.  Thank you for asking.”

Not a spark of his wonderful vibrance or sparkle.  Flat and cold and there was a pit growing in Mycroft’s stomach that he was beginning to hope would swallow him whole.

      “Ah.  And… have you resumed your adventures in the air?”

      “No, but Mum is coming back in a few days and we have at least one job next week.  Thank you for asking.”

Mycroft didn’t think that any knife in existence could stab as sharply as Arthur’s lifeless and perfunctorily-polite words.

      “Good.  Very good.  Martin must be anxious to once again captain his fine aircraft.”

      “Skip’s very happy to be flying again, though he would have… He’s very happy.  Thank you for asking.”

      “Arthur… will you tell me what is troubling you?”

      “No, I don’t think I really want to do that.  Can I talk to Greg again?”

First a stab and now a bludgeon.  So easily Arthur could batter him in the most painful way possible.

      “I would ask that you speak with me so that I might learn what is the source of your unease.”

      “I’m sorry, but that’s not something I want to talk about and I don’t have to if I don’t want to.  I’d really like to talk to Greg now, please.”

The middle Holmes gripped the mobile so tightly he vaguely wondered if it would implode.  How quickly his life had fallen into complete ruin…

      “Arthur, I am prepared to listen to anything you might have to say and…”

There was a ruckus on the other end of the phone call and the next voice Mycroft heard certainly was not Arthur’s.

      “Leave him alone, Mycroft; haven’t you done enough already?  I’ll be lucky if I can get him to sleep at all tonight.  He doesn’t want to talk to you, so bugger off.”

And the line went dead, which, in Mycroft’s opinion was something of a blessing.  Handing the mobile back to Lestrade, the bureaucrat felt his body slacken further, as if it had decided there really wasn’t much point in providing the energy to keep him moving, let alone alive.

      “I take it that didn’t go well.”

      “One could say that.  One could also say it was an unmitigated disaster.  Arthur is apparently not willing to speak to me and does not wish to discuss his reasons.  What am I to do, Gregory?”

      “I don’t know.  If the lad was angry, that’s one thing because anger blows over, but he was… I don’t know exactly what he was, but it went right to his core.  Just give him some time and try again.”

But that was not something Mycroft was willing to do and it was not entirely a selfish wish.  He could not, absolutely could not, allow Arthur to continue to suffer if there was the slightest chance he could do something help ease his distress.

      “Would you be willing to plead my case to Arthur, my dear?  Convince him to speak with me honestly about his feelings so that I might, at the very least, understand them?”

      “Mycroft… I want to help, I really do, but the lad’s had it hard and I think he needs some time to clear his head and come to grips with whatever he’s feeling.  I’m sure he’ll…”

      “But I am not.  I have _no_ confidence in this and I admit gladly that I am fearful of what my actions may have cost me.  For Sherrinford, I have no opinion at this moment, but Arthur… I cannot allow Arthur to stand as my enemy for even a moment.  It is far too painful a thought.”

      “He’s not your enemy, Mycroft.”

      “So you say, but I must know the truth of it.  Please, Gregory.  Please do this for me.”

Lestrade heaved a large sigh and, against his better judgment, nodded.

      “Fine, I’ll ring him up and…”

      “Insufficient.  I must be able to see him while we speak.”

      “Why?  He can’t lie to you, love, this is Arthur we’re talking about.”

      “I am aware of that, however, lying is not the same as withholding and Arthur is quite adept at that when he has cause.”

That much Lestrade knew was true.

      “What do you want then?  I’m _not_ going to try and convince him to come back to London.”

      “You forget that I have already made arrangements for face to face conversation with young Arthur.”

      “Oh, that video whatsit you have going.  I did forget, actually.  I tell you what, I’ll give it a try, but I’m not going to bully him into it.”

      “More than fair.  Do begin.”

Lestrade chuckled and very cheekily ruffled Mycroft’s hair.

      “Yes, sir.  As you say, sir.”

Once again, a call was placed to Arthur’s phone and once again it was Martin’s voice on the other line.

      “Martin, it’s Greg.”

      “He’s got you doing his dirty work now… wonderful.”

      “It’s not like that, you brat.  Mycroft just wants a chance to let Arthur take a swing at him.  From a distance, at least.  Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t think it would be good for the lad to get whatever’s bothering him off his chest.”

No, Martin could _not_ say that because he thought Arthur _should_ give Mycroft a piece of his mind, both to punish the arrogant bastard and to give his fiancé some sense of peace.  Even he had no firm idea what was eating Arthur alive and he was desperate for something to break through his love’s melancholy.

      “I’m not going to let Mycroft browbeat him, though.  First sign he’s trying that Holmes interrogation routine, I am stopping this.”

      “Same on my end.  I already told Mycroft that Arthur wasn’t to be pushed.  He does want this face to face, though.  With that fancy equipment Arthur’s got in his room.”

      “The video conferencing thing?  I don’t know… Arthur gets very nervous sometimes when he has to do things that he thinks aren’t going to be pleasant for him or the other person involved and that might be too much for him.”

      “Yeah, but he can also watch Mycroft and see if he’s being a lying sod or honest.  Arthur is good at reading Mycroft, you have to admit.”

That actually caused Martin to laugh, because it was absolutely true.

      “You got me there.  He’s the only person I trust to actually know what’s going on in His Majesty’s big brain.  I’ll talk to him and see what I can do.  He’ll log in if he’s willing.”

      “Thanks, mate.  Talk to you soon, right?”

      “Yeah, we still have a bet on tomorrow night’s match and I want to crow over my victory.”

      “The only crow you’ll get is what you’ll be eating.”

Martin ended the conversation with a rude noise that made Lestrade laugh and that laugh pulled a very relieved sigh out of Mycroft.

      “Martin is amenable to assisting us?”

      “He’ll do his best.  Let’s go get ready.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Well, do you have that hooked up in here?”

Actually, Mycroft did not.  He had planned to do it before Martin and Arthur departed, but he had not expected that to occur quite so soon.

      “Not at this time, but I shall rectify that tomorrow.”

      “Then we’ve got to relocate to your big theater suite.”

      “Gregory, you are not to walk that distance.  I am quite certain John has not permitted you that degree of movement nor are you capable of that degree of exertion.”

      “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, but if you actually look in the closet you might find something interesting.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his partner, but rolled out of the bed and walked to the closet, where he found a collapsible wheelchair nestled against the back wall.

      “John’s been taking me for a spin a couple of times a day.  Might as well get used to pushing, you lazy thing.”

As if steering his lover for walks would be some form of onerous task.  Mycroft drew out the wheelchair, secured it for use according to Lestrade’s directions and slowly assisted his Detective Inspector into the contraption for their journey to the entertainment room.

      “I hope you do not mind taking strolls in the brisk air, Gregory, for I do plan on squiring you outdoors beginning tomorrow.”

      “Then people will think you’ve taken up with some old geezer and that won’t do your reputation any good.”

      “I care nothing for my reputation where issues concerning your comfort and enjoyment are involved.  I shall gather a suitable blanket for your lap and shawl for your shoulders, so you are not inconvenienced by the chill.”

      “Can I have an ear horn, too?”

      “It shall be delivered by morning.”

__________

Mycroft transferred his lover into his customary chair and engaged the equipment so that when Arthur… _if_ Arthur… agreed to a chat, it would commence immediately.  While they waited, Mycroft simply sat and brought his emotions back under tight control.  For his part, Lestrade breathed through the ache of sitting in the deep and well-cushioned chair that strangely compressed his back and sides to draw out a deep and increasing pain in his chest.  Before, he would have praised the cradling effect of the softness but now… maybe this wasn’t the best idea.  Luckily, Mycroft was too preoccupied to notice.

      “Mycroft?  And Greg… good.”

The two men looked up at the screen and Martin’s glaring face, both mentally marveling at how much the short, ginger man, when he was irritated, could resemble Sherlock.

      “Arthur will be up in a moment.  He’s… he’s getting courage juice.  Please don’t ask.”

      “Thank you, Martin.  Your assistance is greatly appreciated.”

      “Don’t thank me.  I’m doing this for Arthur, not you.”

      “Of course.  Ah, and I believe I hear our dear Arthur arriving on scene.”

Martin looked at something off screen and the gentle grin that rose on his face confirmed the last member of the party had made an entrance.  In the next moment, Arthur’s face appeared and it only broke into his usual sun-shaming smile when he saw Lestrade sitting in the chair.

      “Greg!  You’re sitting!  Not that you can’t sit, but you’re sitting in a real chair!  Oh, but you don’t look…”

      “Arthur, my boy!  Good to see you!  Mycroft’s going to hook all this up in my room so we can chat more regularly.  Sound good?”

Lestrade kept his smile bright and tried to use his eyes to convey the message that Arthur was not to share anything he was thinking with Mycroft.  Luckily, Arthur was very skilled in reading the eyes of his family and got the message, which he acknowledged with a very quick and sympathetic nod.

      “Brilliant!  That will be absolutely brilliant!  We can have all sorts of chats and visits and watch films together and play games together and have the best time we can possibly have!”

      “I’m looking forward to it.  And I hope that we can have Martin and Mycroft join us sometimes, too.  But, you know what you need to do first for that to happen, don’t you?”

      “Oh… do I have to?”

      “No, you don’t.  But I think you’ll feel better if you do.  Even if what you want to say isn’t something that’s pleasant, I’m sure it’ll take some weight off of you if you just let it out.”

Arthur chewed on his lip and cut glances over to Martin, who tried to look as supportive of the idea as he could.

      “Well, maybe you’re right.  But…”

Again he cut eyes to Martin who felt a little light go on in his head.

      “You don’t want an audience, do you, love?”

      “I don’t think I do.  Is that ok, Skip?  You’re not mad are you, because I’m not saying I don’t want you here, I just…”

Martin reached over and stroked Arthur’s flushed cheek.

      “I understand.  How about I wait for you downstairs and when you’re done we can talk about it over some ice cream?”

      “Yes!  That’s a great idea!”

One quick kiss and Martin waved a quick goodbye to the London contingent, as he left Arthur alone in the bedroom.

      “And I’ll go too, lad.  You and Mycroft can have the whole room to yourselves.”

How he was going to accomplish that, Lestrade wasn’t sure, but he gave it his best try, attempting to lift himself out of the chair and, this time, being completely unable to hide the pain that shot through him like another gunshot wound.

      “Gregory!”

      “Greg!”

      “I’m alright… settle down.”

Which was a complete lie, but what was a little lie among friends.

      “You are not alright, my dear, as your pallor tells a very troubling tale.”

      “Don’t do that again, Greg!  That looked like it really hurt and you can’t have any more hurt.  You’ve already got lots!”

Mycroft checked Lestrade over and was not at all happy about what he found, but Lestrade’s whispered ‘you’ve got an opening, use it’ pushed back his urge to cancel this communication and bring his lover back to bed.

      “I quite agree, Arthur.  But, perhaps he should rest awhile before I move him again.”

      “Oh… you could be right.  If he’s already hurt, a little rest could be a very good thing.”

      “And I do believe I have an idea that will give you the privacy you desire and keep our Gregory comfortable for the moment.  One second, if you please.”

Mycroft walked over to a small cabinet beneath the shelves on one side of the room and drew out a pair of wireless headphones which he handed to Lestrade, along with the remote for room’s various entertainment options.

      “Brilliant!  Now Greg can have a nice time and… well, I guess we can have our talk.”

      “Quite.  Goodbye for the moment, my dear.”

Mycroft kissed his partner and made sure to tap the volume button on the remote while Lestrade was watching.  Dear Arthur would never know if Lestrade was actually listening to his film or not and Mycroft dearly hoped the Detective Inspector’s attention would be fully on the conversation.  That he would need assistance processing the information once they were done was a very likely thing.

      “There.  Gregory is happily situated and I shall ensure that he is provided with every comfort once we are returned to his room.  But now, my boy… I shall be honest with you.  I am very distressed that you are suffering so great an upset and I know that I am the cause.  I am hoping that you will help me to understand your frame of mind so that I may try, in some way, to repair the breach I have created between us.  And I _do_ want to heal that breach, Arthur. I cannot bear to envision your continued disappointment in me; it is simply too painful.”

      “Oh… I don’t want that.  I mean… well, I’m not happy right now, but that’s no reason for anyone else not to be happy.”

      “Then let me attempt to restore your happiness.  At the very least, let me understand the reasons for its loss.”

      “Well, I’m not happy you sent Doctor Sam away.  It wasn’t fair.  And it was mean.  And Doctor Sam was so sad... it hurt him that you sent him away and I could tell how much it hurt, so don’t try and say he didn’t care or anything like that.  He even said so when… well, I know he hurt and that hurt me, too, and I was already hurt!  That’s too much hurt, Mycroft.  I’m sorry, but it is.”

Said so when… Arthur’s note.

      “Did Sherrinford outline his feelings in his note to you?”

Arthur seemed startled that Mycroft knew about the message, but the surprise quickly faded into an almost furtive hesitance.

      “Maybe.”

      “May I know the contents of your communique?”

      “Come again?”

      “Your note, Arthur.  May I know the contents of your note?”

      “Oh… I don’t think so.”

      “Does it contribute to your current state of unrest?”

      “I do admit that it does.”

      “Then perhaps sharing the information would help you.  Gregory said you held the secrets tightly and secrets have an acidic quality sometimes.”

Arthur shot a glance to something Mycroft could not see and after a moment, the steward reached over and retrieved a sheet of paper.

      “Here.  I… I can’t read it out loud.  I just can’t.  But… well, here.”

Arthur held the paper up so it filled the screen and Mycroft could readily make out the words scribed in a now-familiar and faintly-remembered cramped and frantic handwriting.

_Arthur,_

_When you read this I don’t want you to get upset.  I know you will anyway, but do your best, ok?  Because it’s all good, I promise you.  I think that my time in London has come to an end and I know it’s my fault that’s the case.  Not that Mycroft isn’t a big fart for kicking me out like that, but if I had been a better person, he wouldn’t have had reason to.  I don’t want to leave, I really don’t, but if my brother honestly believes I would harm another person then I have to admit that maybe I’m not doing any good being here.  Actually, I know I’m not since poor Sherlock looked like he was standing on a tightrope and there wasn’t any net down below.  I told Mycroft I’d stay close by and let him call the shots and he fired the most devastating one first out of the barrel.  There’s really nowhere to go after that and I’ll honor his feelings by taking myself out of the picture again so things can get back to normal._

_I wanted you to know, though, that I will never, not for one moment, ever forget you.  You are the best thing to happen to my family and I can honestly say I think they’re in great hands with you looking after them.  And, I absolutely do not want you to keep thinking what you’re thinking.  It won’t happen.  I know you’re eat up with worry, but it’s just a waste of your good energy, so try and stop if you can.  I’ll say it again, it won’t happen, and when I say something twice you damn better well believe it.  You’re too important to him and he loves you too much, so take a few deep breaths and a little time if you need to, but I promise you it will be ok._

_Where I go from here I’m not sure, but if it’s at all possible, I’ll try and give you a hello now and then.  You’ll know it’s me, even if no one else does and that’s probably for the best.  Now, a lot of people are going to want to see this message and it’s up to you if you want to share it.  I won’t mind either way, but if you want to keep it just for yourself for little while, go ahead.  I’ll miss you, Arthur and I really do hope we get to meet again sometime.  Maybe I’ll surprise you someday when you get your little house or on one of your flights, but until then, please don’t be sad or worry about me.  I’ll be fine and you need all of your kickass energy and attention to look after that sorry lot.  Take care of yourself, Arthur, and have a wonderful life._

_Sam_

Mycroft read the message aloud so that Lestrade could hear but softly so Arthur was not barraged by words which had obviously upset him terribly.  But, while most of it was expected and understandable, one section was not.  And he was not entirely certain he wanted to seek clarity on the issue.

      “Well, I do see why Sherrinford’s words might pain you.  He is not the most subtle person at the best of times and…”

      “I think I have to ask you not to be mean to Doctor Sam, Mycroft, especially when he’s not here to say anything to defend himself.”

That was as close to an angered statement as Mycroft had ever heard Arthur make and he knew without question he had stepped onto thin ice.

      “I apologize, Arthur.  It was unkind of me.”

      “Yes, it was.  And he doesn’t deserve it.  He _didn’t_ deserve it.  He didn’t do anything wrong and you were mean to him.  Now, I know that you’re busy and sometimes you have a lot on your mind, but you’re supposed to pay attention to facts and you didn’t do that at all.  Doctor Sam never did one thing to hurt Greg.  Not a single one.  He gave Greg the best care in the world, even when we didn’t know he was your brother.  He would sit with him in the hospital and talk to him and… even when Doctor Sam was hurt, which he got helping _you_ , he’d still sneak in and check on Greg and you so saying he was dangerous wasn’t at all backed up by the facts.  So it was just mean.”

      “Arthur, I had no intention of…”

      “So what if Doctor Sam’s a bit silly?  That he likes to laugh and tell jokes and can be a bit naughty.  I admit it’s not good he drinks so much, but he didn’t when had to do his work because he cared about Greg getting better!  Doctor Sam just wants to help people and sometimes maybe you don’t realize that what he’s doing is actually helping, but it _is_ and there’s nothing wrong with being silly sometimes or wanting to help people or laughing and having fun!  It’s not right to be mean just because someone’s like that!  It’s not right at all!”

Arthur’s agitation was skyrocketing and Mycroft suddenly knew, with sickening certainty, just what his brother was cautioning Arthur not to worry about.

      “Arthur… do you believe I shall someday be, as you say, mean to you?”

      “Why not?  I’m silly sometimes and I like to laugh and sometimes I do things that people don’t understand even though they’re not bad things!”

      “My boy… I was simply unsettled at the thought… I was trying to protect Gregory…”

      “And you were trying to protect _me_ when you were mean to Greg!  You were horrible to him!   You… you should have seen him when you hurt him!  Mr. Sherlock and I both were very scared because he looked so ill!  He hadn't done anything to deserve it either! And if you think I’ve done something wrong, you’ll do that to me and I can’t… I can’t think about that because I’ll start to cry again and I don’t want to cry anymore!  I HATE crying all the time, but every time I think about you being hurtful and mean to me someday I start to cry and I can’t stop and Skip tries to help and he can’t because I JUST CAN’T STOP!”

Arthur was nearly screaming and Martin bursting through the door and slamming the connection closed was almost a kindness, one Mycroft was absolutely certain he did not deserve.

      “Mycroft, come here.”

Lestrade tossed aside the headphones he’d taken off quite awhile ago, not that Arthur noticed a thing, and waved his quickly unraveling lover to come to him.  It took Mycroft several seconds to actually understand the action and that the man truly wanted him to come any closer.  He had savaged his Gregory, brutalized him with words and deeds.  Humiliated him, tortured him, really, and…

      “Stop thinking, love.  Please, just stop thinking and come here.”

But how could he?  How could he stop thinking when he so richly deserved the punishment that only the force of his own mind could inflict?  Arthur _feared_ him.  Was fearful he would suffer the same fate as the others who cared for the ugly and twisted man in the very expensive suit.  And Mycroft could not, not for a moment, blame the sweet and caring boy for his fears.

      “Mycroft, if you don’t stop thinking and come here, I _will_ come to you and you know that’s not something you want.”

That cut through Mycroft’s mental loop and the middle Holmes swiftly moved to stop his partner from attempting something rash and dangerous.

      “Gregory, do not harm yourself on my account.”

      “Then pull your brain out of your arse for a moment and step back into reality.”

      “As you wish.  I have destroyed my bond with Arthur and filled the boy with a well-founded fear for his own emotional welfare, based on my gross and unforgiveable mistreatment of you.  My, reality is a lovely place to reside.  Thank you, my sweet, for your suggestion.”

      “Bastard.  Look, you wanted the truth and you got it.  Now… now you have something to work with, don’t you?”

      “Work with?  There is nothing to work _on_.  I have… I have done to him nearly what I did to you and… do you know the nightmares I still suffer over my actions towards you?  The nights I cannot begin to find any rest because the images of the pain I visited upon you fills my mind and I cannot shut it off!  He suffers that now and it is my fault!   The gentlest, kindest man in existence and I have reduced him to an anxious wreck of tears and worry!”

Lestrade reached out and took Mycroft’s hand, squeezing hard to capture all of his lover’s attention.

      “And I have my own nightmares.  My own nights I can’t sleep.  I haven’t forgotten any of what you did, Mycroft.  Not one bit and some nights it aches in me so harshly I want to get a pail and try and throw it all up so I can at least breathe again.  But I’m still here, aren’t I?  I still know you love me and I sure as hell still love you.  We’re working through it and it _is_ getting better.  You just have to do that with Arthur now.  Tell him you’re sorry and mean it.  Show him how sorry you are and he’ll start to believe.  If I can believe you, love, Arthur certainly can because I’m a nasty and cynical bastard compared to him.  It won’t be easy, but you _can_ do it.  And don’t forget what he’s been through.  Arthur is in no way over his experience with me and then the call with his dad… he’s got a lot going on inside and I’m sure that’s fueling part of his reaction.  He _is_ worried, but I honestly feel you can win him back.”

And Mycroft had to try and hold onto that.  Take his lover’s faith as his own because he could not, he could _not_ , accept that he had obliterated his and Arthur’s rapport.  He could not live with himself if he had irreparably broken their own special relationship.  It was far too important to him, as was Arthur’s well-being.  The boy would continue to suffer so long as he continued to fear and that was not, in any manner, something Mycroft would allow.

      “I shall do my best.  My utmost best.  And Sherrinford?  What shall… I do not know…”

      “One thing at a time.  Sam would want you to fix things with Arthur first; he actually tried to head that off with his letter, remember?  You work on Arthur and then… well, that’ll give you some time to think about what you want with your brother.  I’m not going to lie, I do think you overreacted and made a shit decision, but he’s an idiot for running when the heat got turned up.  One thing at a time, though, ok?”

One thing at a time… that was manageable.  Repair his bridges with Arthur, reassure his dearest Gregory that the lessons he was learning would not be forgotten or his errors repeated, make decisions about Sherrinford and his place, or lack thereof, in their family.  A plan, an agenda… it was familiar and comfortable.  And it gave him direction for what were his most important battles to come.

      “Very well.  You are, as always, the wiser of us.  Now, shall we tend to you?  You are not hiding your pain with any degree of success.”

      “Yeah, I need to get out of this chair.  I think I overdid it, a little.”

      “Just a little, my dear?’

      “Ok, a lot.  I’m fucking dying right now and I really need to get back to bed.”

      “Of course.  Be very careful and I shall assist you.”

Lestrade struggled and, with Mycroft’s help, only felt like screaming with fiery pain as he got out of the chair.  It was a sweating and red-faced man that nearly collapsed into the wheelchair and Mycroft took a moment to be certain his voice would not shake before speaking.  As shattering was his conversation with Arthur, it did not have the rank whiff of sheer terror that came with watching his partner teeter on the edge of physical breakdown.

      “I believe you shall have to learn to use other methods for your excretory relief tomorrow, my love, because I shall not permit you one step out of your bed.  I shall even postpone our elderly gentleman’s stroll to another day.”

      “For once, I’m not going to argue.”

      “I adore it when we are of like mind.”

Lestrade’s smile was weak, but still more brilliant than any other, in Mycroft’s opinion.

      “So do I.  Onward, Mycroft.  And I promise you… we’ll all get through this.”

      “Do you really believe that?  In all honesty and without a thought to spare my feelings, do you believe that this is something that can be remedied?”

      “Yeah, I do.  Family life isn’t easy, Mycroft, and this is the way it goes sometimes.  So long as you don’t give up, there’s always a chance to make things better.”

Do not give up… that was an appropriate mantra for his future meditations.  Never, ever give up… there was far too much worth fighting for… far too much to lose… and Mycroft Homes did _not_ lose.  Not when the stakes were so high…


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft forcefully kept his emotions in check as he wheeled Lestrade back to his room, because it was extremely clear that his lover was hurting ferociously and trying valiantly to keep the evidence of his pain camouflaged.  As rapidly as his Gregory seemed to be progressing, Mycroft had to remind himself that it was not so long ago that he had lay near death with catastrophic wounds to his chest and… a few sips of lager and a small morsel of nutritionally-dubious food seemed a minor thing compared to the gross relocation and activity through which he had just put the man he loved.

It was another very difficult struggle to get Lestrade back into the hospital bed and Mycroft immediately, and over the Detective Inspector’s objections, rushed to get John who had closeted himself in his bedroom to give the couple some privacy to talk or… other things.  It was more than a small shock when the door burst open and a very agitated Mycroft Holmes waved at him to follow.

      “Please John, Gregory needs you.”

Whatever joke John was going to make about old men and sex died quickly when he saw the true panic on Mycroft’s face and he was up and out of the bed running after the older Holmes to Lestrade’s room.  And what he found did not make him happy… a highly stressed patient in obvious pain and having issues catching his breath.  No, this was not good in the least.

      “What happened?”

      “I took Gregory for a small ride in his wheelchair so we might use the videoconferencing equipment in the entertainment room to communicate with young Arthur.  Gregory… the chairs were not hospitable for him and removing himself from them caused him great distress.”

Entertainment room?  John shelved the question and focused on the only thing in the room that really mattered.

      “Big soft cushy chairs?”

      “Yes.”

      “Yeah, no support so his body had to provide it all when it was _not_ ready to.  That wasn’t smart.”

      “I am very well aware of the poorness of my decision.”

      “I’m not criticizing Mycroft; I’m just informing.  Right now, his upper body isn’t ready for that.  That’s why his wheelchair doesn’t have a nice plush back.  Might not be the most comfortable, but uncomfortable is better than painful or damaging.  Ok, let me check him over.”

Informing.  And it was information that would be placed in the special vault of items designated for his Gregory’s welfare.  In hindsight, it made perfect sense, but at the time… well, that time was passed and now he could only hope there had not been too much disruption to his Gregory’s recovery.

John wanted to flick the nose of the man currently trying to avoid catching his eye.  Greg knew this was a stupid thing to do and did it anyway.  Stupid thing for a stupid man.  But… he’d have done the same thing.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out why Mycroft wanted to talk to Arthur and Greg would want to be there for support.  But, next time, he had to stay in his goddam wheelchair and not do something foolish.

      “John?”

      “Hold on, give me a moment.  It looks like… yeah, there’s some tearing here and I really don’t like his breathing, but that’ll hopefully quiet down in a bit.  Ok, I’ve going to give you a little something for the pain, Greg, but you need to tell me if it gets worse or if you feel anything, _anything_ , different.  And try to relax and breathe slowly; see if you can, ok?”

For Mycroft, waiting to see if the first missile would fire to begin an international conflict was in no manner as harrowing as waiting for his Gregory to rebound from this event.  And as the crisis was not seeming to pass without intervention, the middle Holmes watched John reattach the leads for the heart monitor, then inject Lestrade with something that not only began to reestablish his breathing, but made his eyes droop and the rest of the examination took place with a far more placid patient.

      “He overexerted and got winded.  Then, his body couldn’t quite catch up with the oxygen demand and, most likely, he started to panic a little which made the situation worse.  And it probably hurts like fire for him to breathe right now so that… well, it was too much.  I’ll tidy up his incisions a little, but I think he’ll be fine.  Keep an eye on him, though and if you notice anything, don’t hesitate to find me if I’m not here.”

      “Why would you not be here!”

      “Calm down, Mycroft.  I mean if I’m asleep or something.  If he started something dripping inside, it could take awhile before we notice any significant change.  Don’t worry… I haven’t gone back to our flat since… well, since… and I’m not going to until you decide on who you want to help out.  But you _will_ need to decide, Mycroft.  I want to go _home_ and Sherlock… Sherlock needs my help right now.  I think it’ll go better if we’re both at the flat without the distractions of being here.  I need to give him my full attention for awhile and I haven’t been able to do that.”

      “Is he truly distressed?”

      “He’s… off.  Trying to hide it, of course, but he’s definitely having a hard time and I need to get down to the root of it.  Maybe… maybe you could have a chat with him?”

Mycroft wondered if John had accidentally injected himself with whatever he had given the now drowsy Detective Inspector.

      “Me?  I shall forestall asking if you are mad, because that would not bode well for your further tenure as Gregory’s physician.”

      “I know it’s not the normal thing I’d ask, but… well, it’s sort of something you have in common right now.  Sam, I mean.  He might be willing to talk to you seeing as how this is something that impacts both of you as a family thing.  And you’re good at deducing what he’s thinking, so you might be able to…”

      “I see.  Unfortunately, I doubt that Sherlock will wish to express his troubles to me, especially since I am likely a contributor to his issues.”

      “He hasn’t said anything, if you’re asking.  And I think he would since he doesn’t pass up a chance to blacken your name.  I think it’s a lot of things balled up into a tight package and I honestly have no idea how to start to pry it open.  The only other person Sherlock might talk to is… well, he’s not here anymore.”

      “Young Arthur.”

      “It’s amazing how those two get along.  Arthur just gets right to the heart of the big git and Sherlock lets him.  I think he likes it, actually.  Having someone deduce him and… well, I can’t think of a more gentle and kind interrogator than Arthur.”

      “I agree.  I do believe people would thank him if he sat across the inquisition table and tore from them their darkest secrets.”

      “Probably.  But… how is he doing?  Today, I mean.  Did you… did you work things out?”

What an amusing idea.

      “No, we did not.  Arthur became highly upset and Martin, quite appropriately, terminated our conversation.”

      “That bad.  I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”

      “No.”

      “Ok.”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you having an episode?”

      “Really, John.  It is simply… I am at a loss as to how to proceed in this situation and dear Gregory is not available to advise me.”

      “ ‘lcks.’ “

      “Of course, my dear.  As soon as you can include all appropriate vowels and consonants in your vulgarities, yours shall be the ear that I bend.  For the moment, however, please take some rest so that you might recover from your ordeal…. Rest does not include making rude noises, Gregory.  Now shall you require a second syringe of your medication or will you behave?  _Gregory Lestrade_ …. however, since I did not prohibit the making of rude faces, you shall not suffer a further injection.  But do rest, my love.  You are not well, as you are keenly aware.”

Mycroft nodded for John to follow him out of earshot and the two men simply chatted a moment about nonsense until Lestrade, without the distraction of their conversation, fell asleep.

      “Now, as you were saying…”

      “Quite.  Arthur is very fearful and I cannot, in good conscience, say his fears are not without merit.  He certainly has a significant body of evidence to support his position.”

      “You want to tell me what he’s worried about?”

No.

      “Let us just say that Arthur is worried that certain actions perpetrated upon others in my enclave shall…

      “Plain English or forget it.”

Visigoth.

      “Arthur worries that what was suffered by Gregory and, to a far lesser extent, Sherrinford shall be visited upon him.”

      “Oh… _oh_.  And that would absolutely crush him.  Really, he would be broken into a hundred thousand weepy pieces and Martin would have a devil of a time trying to get them put back together.  Actually, I think they probably wouldn’t go back together properly, almost like they didn’t for… well, he’d be destroyed, that’s for sure.”

There was never a time when memories of his abysmal conduct towards his partner failed to drive a spike into Mycroft’s heart.

      “That is a very thorough evaluation of the situation.  Arthur has been… he was a valued confidante during my attempts to win Gregory to my side and knows well the mistakes I made during that time.  And… he is of the opinion that my actions towards Sherrinford were unmerited and his expulsion was cruel.  I cannot in any way marginalize his concerns, because he has examples to support his position, the most damning being my treatment of Gregory.”

      “What are you going to do?”

There was the question of the moment.  What could he do?  How does one ease fears built on firm foundation?

      “I admit that I am at a loss at the moment.  I do not often find myself in the position of providing reassurance, at least not on matters of a personal nature, and I have no template on which to base a course of action.”

      “Well, it’s going to come down to talking to him, no matter what else you try, so you might as well just start there.”

      “I highly doubt Arthur is in a mood to speak with me further at this time.”

      “And when has that ever mattered to you?”

      “You are not suggesting…”

      “You sent a helicopter for me and I didn’t even _want_ to ride in one.”

Mycroft bit back a smile… Arthur was _very_ hopeful to have a helicopter ride.

      “I shall consider your suggestion.”

      “Good, but consider quickly.  Do not leave things to fester.  It… it doesn’t lead anywhere good.”

No, no it did not.  A lesson hard learned and well-remembered.

__________

      “Arthur?  When is your mother coming back exactly?”

      “Hm?  Oh, I’m not actually sure.  She wasn’t very specific beyond ‘whenever I desire to refill my life with idiots,’ but she did ask me to remind her when Snoopadoop’s little yearly checkup was scheduled and that’s on Tuesday.”

Tuesday… Martin took a deep breath and tried to summon something other than a deep regret from his emotional handbag, but failed miserably.  Not because Carolyn was coming home, but because Carolyn was coming _home_.  Which had been his and Arthur’s home for this short while and now… he wanted a home with Arthur.  Wanted it so badly he could barely picture his life without it.  Arthur’s magical little house where they could continue doing as they were now… being together.  Truly together and not him in his flat and Arthur here, seeing each other when they flew and the occasional night out, but not being together.  Not squabbling over what film to watch or what color Arthur’s new hat should be.  Not sharing the breakfast table and starting the day with laughter instead of his usual low-simmer anxiety.  Not ending up in the same place each night and sleeping warm and comfortable wrapped in each other’s arms.  It was going to be so hard going back to the way things had been.  And the wait to change that permanently was going to be brutally long…

      “Why, Skip?”

      “Oh nothing, just curious.  We’ll have to make sure the house is perfect before Carolyn returns or she’ll have us drawn and quartered.”

      “There’s plenty of time to clean and, anyway, cleaning is fun!  You get to dance and sing and then everything sparkles and what could be better than that!”

      “Only you could find joy in cleaning, Arthur, but I’m glad you can.  Now, what do you want to do today, besides cleaning?  We’ve got a few days, at least, to ourselves and we should make the most of them.  I know it’s not London, but Fitton can…”

Beautiful.  Just beautiful, you idiot captain.  Please do mention London after Arthur was just recovering from last night’s debacle.  Getting him calmed down had been a long and grim process and it was only after a great deal of comforting and coaxing, did Arthur finally reveal what had been bothering him and let his note be read.  And he couldn’t look Arthur in the eyes and say that he was forever safe from Mycroft’s wrath because… well, because Mycroft was a Holmes and, apparently, it was never a good idea to think you were safe with them.

      “Oh, Arthur… I’m sorry… I know… well, I know things didn’t end… I mean, it’s ok if you’re still… you don’t worry about anything because I’m here and that’s that.”

Whatever that meant.

      “It’s alright, Skip.  I do feel better now that I had my little cry and my little sleep and the lovely breakfast you made, which was really brilliant because you don’t usually make breakfast and you did a super job with just yogurt and fruit and the lovely almonds from my Salmon, Almond and Banana pie, which is really my very best pie and who knew that almonds would be so good with only yogurt and fruit!”

      “I’m glad you liked it.  So, as I was saying, what would you like to…”

Three sharp knocks sounded on the door and Martin had a surge of irrational fear that the clichéd secret police or military had come to drag them away somewhere you never got to come back from.

      “Hurray!  Company!”

Arthur sprinted towards the door, which, when opened, revealed two men in dark suits and sunglasses and Martin hoped the little squeak he heard wasn’t actually made by _him_.

      “Mr. Arthur Shappey?”

      “That’s me.  Are we playing a guessing game?”

      “No sir, my question was to confirm information I already possessed, but thank you for inquiring.  Now, will you come with me, sir?”

      “Arthur’s not going anywhere.”

Martin inserted himself between his fiance and their visitors and hoped that he was making somewhat of a ferocious face at the man.  In all likelihood he probably just looked constipated and confused, but maybe that would frighten off Mr. Sunglasses just as efficiently.

      “That, I believe, is for Mr. Shappey to decide, Mr. Crieff.”

Yes, having your name spoken in a calm voice by a mysterious man in black was the creepiest experience a person could have.

      “Skip…”

      “Arthur, just go into the kitchen or something and let me handle things here.”

      “No, I don’t think I’m going to do that.  Not that I don’t think you’re brilliant for being worried for me, but… I don’t think they want anything bad.”

      “You don’t know that, love.”

      “I assure you, Mr. Crieff, we are very intent on ensuring Mr. Shappey’s continued good health.”

      “Now see… when you say that, it sounds like you really mean the exact opposite, so excuse me if I don’t let my fiancé traipse off with you down to the secret interrogation room or whatever you have in store for him.”

      “Skip… that’s not what they want.”

      “Oh, and how do you know?”

Arthur nodded and Martin followed his eyes to the large dark sedan idling in front of Carolyn’s house.

      “Oh no.  Love, that’s the best reason of all you should just go in the kitchen and let me take care of this.”

      “Mr. Crieff, I again offer my assurances that Mr. Shappey is in no danger.  Well, provided the helicopter does not experience any mechanical issues, but what are the odds of that?”

Martin rolled his eyes and waited for the eruption.

      “A HELICOPTER!  I GET TO RIDE IN A HELICOPTER!”

      “Mr. Holmes felt it was the most expedient method of transport.”

      “Arthur, love… you know why Mycroft wants you to go to London.  Don’t play his games.”

      “But, Skip… _helicopter_.”

      “Is a ride in a helicopter worth having to talk to Mycroft face to face?  That’s going to be the price you’ll have to pay and do I need to remind you of last night.  I’d rather not, but I will if I have to.”

The light dimming in Arthur’s eyes kicked Martin in the gut and he wished he could take back his words.  But Arthur had no business dealing with Mycroft right now.  He was too raw, too disillusioned.  He’d end up hurt again somehow and Martin could _not_ allow that.

      “No, you don’t need to remind me.  I had a bit of turn, didn’t I?  But… it was just so hard seeing him!  And Greg… you didn’t see Greg, Skip.  He was hurting so badly and Mycroft was there wanting to talk and I really didn’t want to, but I _did_ sort of want to and then he read my letter and I could tell he was upset and that made me more upset and then we started to talk about… things… and I felt worse and then I just sort of… I really don’t remember much about what I just sort of’ed but I know I sort of’ed a lot and now… oh, I think I’ve gotten a bit lost.  Yes!  Mycroft.  I think I should talk to him, again.”

      “What!  Arthur, no.  Sometime, yes.  Sometime that is in the future and not now, yes.  Future, yes.  Now, no.  See, nice and simple.  Now, why don’t you say goodbye to these gentlemen and we can…”

      “Skip...”

Arthur took Martin in a big hug, as much for his own comfort as his fiancé’s.

      “I know you’re trying to do what’s best for me and I love you for that.  It’s absolutely brilliant, actually!  But… Mycroft wouldn’t do all of this if he didn’t really, really want to talk and I don’t feel right letting him really, really want to talk and not getting to because I’m… because I don’t want to.  It’s a little mean and I can’t do something mean when I got upset at him for being mean, now can I?”

      “Yes, actually you can, but… well, maybe you can’t, but you need to be sure of this, Arthur.  You could just send word that you’ll phone soon and that should be fine.  He knows how upset you were…”

      “Exactly.  He _knows_ , Skip and he still wants to talk.  That’s where the really, really part comes in.  And… when he was awful to Greg and Doctor Sam, he didn’t plan it ahead of time and send a nice car and a helicopter to get them first.  I can’t say I won’t get a bit sad while we talk, but I can just have a little cry later and get rid of the sadness.”

      “He’ll run you in circles with words, love.  It’s what they do.”

      “Who are they?”

      “Them.  Mycroft, Sherlock… and Sherrinford, I guess.  They get your head spinning and you completely miss the real point of why their talking to you.  I just don’t want you to get talked into something you don’t want, Arthur and if anyone could do that, it’s Mycroft.”

Arthur gave Martin another hug and smiled into his captain’s hair.  His Skip was the best fiancé in the world!  But, on this point, he rather had one foot in a bowl of custard.  Mycroft was brilliant at making your head spin with his twisty words, but if you knew he could do that… well, you’d still get wound around, but you _knew_ that you had and could walk back to where you started and try again.  Or at least pick up from where you were if you hadn’t remembered to drop any breadcrumbs to find your way back like the little children in the fairy stories.       

      “I’ll be alright, Skip.  And sometimes, I think I make Mycroft a bit topsy-turvy, too, so it all comes out even.”

      “Are you sure I can’t convince you out of this, love?  We can watch films and have ice cream and popcorn and I’ll even melt chocolate and caramel to drizzle on your popcorn.”

      “Ooohhh… that does sound like a brilliant day… but I have to do this first.  If I don’t, I think I might not quite enjoy my snacks and film as much as I want to and that is certainly not any fun!”

Martin shook his head and tried to lose the feeling of dread threading through his bones.  This was not going to end well, but… but Arthur was strong and if it all went to hell, then they could wash their hands of it completely and work on moving on without Mycroft King of the Universe Holmes.

      “Ok, then I’ll get our jackets.”

      “Our?”

      “If you think you’re going alone, then you’re off your trolley.”

      “Oh, I don’t know.  Helicopters are very small and I’m not sure if there’s enough room, even though you’re very tiny and could sit on my lap.”

      “If Mr. Crieff wishes to accompany you, at least to London in general, he is quite welcome to come.  I assure you, our transport is sufficiently large without anyone having to share a seat.”

      “Hurray!  Though you can still sit on my lap if you want to, Skip, because it’s rather nice when you do it and we’re on the sofa and…”

      “Yes!  Yes, that’s a wonderful thing that these gentlemen do not need to know about…now why don’t you go and get our jackets and maybe a little snack for yourself and your notepad and pencils.”

      “Oh, that’s a good idea.  I could use a little snack and I should have my notebook handy in case Mycroft says something I have to remember.  And I’ll have to call Mrs. Parker and see if she’ll mind Snoopadoop for the day.  If not, maybe Douglas could…”

      “Douglas would barter your dog away in one of his ridiculous schemes, Arthur.  Call Mrs. Parker; I’m sure the gentlemen won’t mind making a stop to drop off Snoop.”

      “Our car is very dog-friendly, Mr. Crieff.”

      “See?  Go on, love.  I’ll keep our visitors company.”

Arthur dashed off to make his preparations and Martin again tried to turn a forceful, no-nonsense glare on the vocal one of the duo at his door.

      “Now see here, if my cousin thinks for one minute he’s going to bully Arthur into…”

      “I am not privy to any specific intentions of Mr. Holmes, sir, however, I do have assurance from a Doctor Watson that this is not to be anything but a discussion that Mr. Shappey may discontinue at any time and is specifically to help Mr. Shappey reduce his current state of unease.”

John knew about this?  And gave a nod?  Martin hated to admit it, but if John was saying it was ok, then there must already have been some discussion on their end about Arthur’s feelings and that was… helpful.  John wouldn’t let Arthur walk into something that would upset him and at least… well, maybe John would be in his corner if Mycroft did behave like a bastard and needed to be taken down a peg.  Sam… Sherrinford… would have been helpful for that, too, but who knows what corner of the world he was currently bedding down in.

      “Fine, but the first hint of trouble and I’m taking steps.”

      “That will be difficult sir, since you will not be attending the meeting.”     

      “Excuse me?”

      “You may accompany us to London and we shall deposit you at Mr. Holmes’s residence, however, Mr. Shappey will continue on for his meeting alone.”

      “No.  That’s it – I’m putting my foot down.”

      “I’m sorry, sir, but my orders are quite specific.  Mr. Shappey’s presence is requested and only Mr. Shappey’s.  If I may say so, sir, I rather doubt that Mr. Holmes will be inclined to make a fuss at his club.”

      “His club?”

      “Correct.”

Club… that must be the same place that Arthur went to before and fell, as was often the case, in love with the location.  That was another bit of reassuring news.  This foolish conversation would, at least, be somewhat public and it was true that Mycroft would never cause Arthur distress in public.

      “I’m going to tell Arthur to have his phone ready and call me the instant he feels uncomfortable.”

      “That will reassure him greatly, I’m certain.”

Martin had no idea if the man was being sincere or sarcastic, but Arthur’s arrival pushed that item to the bottom of his importance list.

      “I’m ready!  Mrs. Parker is happy to watch Snoopadoop, but we have to buy her a cake, so that means a stop at the nice bakery next to the bookshop you like, Skip.  Oh!  And I probably should buy Snoopadoop her own snack since she’ll miss lunch and maybe dinner, so we should stop and buy that, too.  And I know you haven’t had your second cup of tea yet, so we can…”

      “Arthur!  A bakery stop is fine and I’m sure Mrs. Parker can find something for your dog to nibble on until we get back.  Snoopadoop is not exactly what one would call discriminating about what she eats.  Do you remember the lipstick incident?”

      “That was rather funny, wasn’t it?  Her face was so cute with her big red smile.”

      “Picking up her Sunset Rose-colored poop wasn’t quite as laugh inducing.  Now, are you sure you want to do this?  Last chance to back out?”

Arthur whistled and picked up the little dog that came running and Martin sighed and took their jackets out of Arthur’s hands to carry to the car.

      “I need to do this, Skip.  Even… even if I get very upset and make Mycroft mad so he never wants to talk to me again, I’d rather know now, so I have time to have a lot of little cries before Mum comes back.”

      “Alright, love.  Off we go, then.  At least the helicopter ride will be fun.”

__________

Helicopters were satanic.  Perhaps there were helicopters that were not piloted by maniacs who had no problem taking direction from a manically-excited cabin steward, but he wasn’t going to take the risk.  Arthur had been stunned into a very uncharacteristic silence seeing the large, shiny machine sitting smugly at their airfield and, once the shock broke, rushed headlong and dived in through the open door.  And, of course, they had an aviator’s cap and goggles for him, along with the headset that allowed him to make requests that he pilot gladly agreed to so they were privileged to enjoy a wide variety of aerial maneuvers that made Arthur shriek and laugh and him look for something to catch his breakfast should it decide to make an appearance.  Setting foot on the tarmac after they landed was the greatest feeling he had ever experienced.

      “Wasn’t that brilliant, Skip!  Oh my… it was Skip Brilliant with lovely glitter and holiday lights!  And we get to do it again on the way home!”

Which Martin wondered might be mutated into a nice, soothing train trip, instead.

      “Yes, it was just thrilling.  And is that your friend Charles waving at you?”

      “Charles!  Now I feel a lot better because Mycroft sent Charles and he knows how much I like Charles.  That’s a good thing, right Skip?”

Good or a carefully calculated piece of manipulation to put Arthur further off his guard.  Martin truly had no idea which it was because Mycroft was perfectly capable of either.

      “It’s a very good thing.  Now, let’s go before he has to wait any longer.  We did arrive a bit behind schedule.”

      “Oh, that’s true.  But how could I pick which cake to buy if I didn’t eat all the samples first?”

      “You were very wise.  And maybe we can find time for a quick stop at the chocolate shop you like and you can have a few more free samples.  You need to get something from them anyway about what they make so you can choose what you want for the wedding.”

      “WEDDING!  AND CHOCOLATE!  Oh, now I’m feeling a LOT better!  And… I have to talk to Mycroft, Skip.”

      ‘That’s why we’re here, Arthur.”

      “No, I mean I have to talk to him.”

      “I’m not sure that made things more clear.”

      “Well, Greg has to come to the wedding and he won’t come if Mycroft won’t come and I really want Mycroft to come anyway, even if he wasn’t with Greg, which he is, but even if not, I’d be sad if he wasn’t there and I can’t be sad at our wedding!”

And that was something Martin couldn’t deny.  He had a suspicion that Greg would come anyway and that Mycroft would insist on it, but if Mycroft himself wasn’t there, no matter how large the rift, Arthur would be unhappy.  And, no… Arthur was _not_ going to be unhappy on their wedding day.

      “That sounds like great motivation for a successful talk.  But, you have to be honest and talk with him about how you feel, love.  No trying to be nice and not saying things because you think they might hurt Mycroft’s feelings.”

      “Oh… I’ll try.  It’s going to be hard, though.”

      “I know, but do your best.  And I’ll be waiting with the others when you’re finished so you can meet us and have a visit with everyone.”

      “Except Doctor Sam.”

      ‘Except Sam.”

      “Which is something I have to talk about.”

      “That’s true.”

      “Are you sure we can’t stop for chocolate first?”

      “Talk first, then chocolate.”

      “This _is_ going to be hard.”

__________

After Martin was deposited at Mycroft’s home and Arthur made a mad dash inside to give everyone a big hello hug, the steward was back in car and moving towards the Diogenes.  As they got closer, a portion of his confidence began to wane and by the time the car pulled up to the entrance, it took a moment of Charles’s coaxing to get Arthur out onto the pavement and up to the front door.  Luckily, the staff had been notified of his impending arrival and there were gentle smiles waiting to encourage him to come inside and then escort him to Mycroft, who was waiting as nervously as an expectant father.  He had enjoyed one wonderful meeting with Arthur in this room and truly did not wish to sully that sterling record.  When Arthur was announced, Mycroft made one final look that the fire was blazing, the sherry was poured, the chairs were positioned for a cozy chat and that he was not embarrassing himself with anxiety-prompted perspiration.

      “Ah, Arthur.  How very good of you to accept my invitation.  I hope you had an agreeable trip.”

Mycroft looked like Mycroft.  He sounded like Mycroft.  And he wasn’t wearing his squished smile, either, it was his real one.  And everything was cozy and warm just like he remembered it.  And there was sherry!  Oh… how was he going to say serious things when it was so lovely and friendly…

      “Hi, Mycroft.  I got to ride in a helicopter!”

      “And did you find it enjoyable?”

Oh…it seemed wrong to want to dance the Helicopter Dance, which the pilot said was the best he had ever seen, since he was here to talk about serious things but… HELICOPTER!

      “Ah, I take it from your spirited gyrations that it was quite the adventure.”

Oops.  Apparently his legs weren’t quite on board with the _serious things_ part of this, but HELICOPTER!

      “It was _very_ nice.  And the pilot did lots of fun things so it was like… well, once when we had to fly to America, we had to stay over a day and Mum let me go to the big Six Flags park nearby and I rode all the rides, which was absolutely brilliant, and the pilot made the trip here feel like I was on a rollercoaster and Skip did get a little green, but he didn’t need one of the sick bags, so hurray!”

Mycroft felt something in him ease hearing Arthur’s growing exuberance.  So wonderfully vibrant a personality and he steeled himself to do anything to win that unvarnished joy back into his life.

      “How delightful.  I am very pleased you were given a grand experience.  And Martin traveled with you?  I am certain he is busily catching up Gregory and John on your escapades in Fitton.”

      “Well, we haven’t done much, actually.  Not like in London, I mean.  But it’s been fantastic!  Mum’s still gone, so Skip and I have the house to ourselves and we take walks and sit in the park and watch films and there was a little concert at the college and we went to that and it was brilliant because I actually knew some of the songs and we get to eat together all the time and, even though Skip can get a little fussy about who uses who’s towel or Snoopadoop getting hair on his trousers, it’s been perfectly perfect in every perfect way perfectly possible!”

Oh, there he went being talky again, when he should be frowning and stroking his chin like they did in the films.  Mycroft was really going to think he was a silly monkey if he couldn’t be serious for one single minute!

Mycroft  wondered what it was like to be so perfectly free and happy with one’s self.  It was not something he could ever feel, but he could appreciate it in others and took his own happiness seeing it expressed so freely.  And it was certainly time to begin discussions with his cousin about the nature of their residential situation – how on Earth was he to allow the couple to simply return to their separated lives when it was such a simple thing to… but that was a matter for another day.  Now, there were more urgent matters to attend to.

      “What a pleasant domestic picture you paint.  Now, do make yourself comfortable.  I hope I was not presumptuous in providing a small spot of sherry to rejuvenate you after your travels.”

Arthur tried to be very casual and serious, but couldn’t help leaping into the nicely-cushioned chair and letting the fire make his skin toasty warm while he took a small, then a larger sip of his sherry.

      “This is still the best sherry I’ve ever tasted.  If it wasn’t proper to have wine or champagne at a wedding, I’d have this instead.”

And how fortunate that Mycroft had already laid in a hefty supply for just that occasion.

      “Perhaps you might find yourself surprised.  One never knows what might occur on such a magical day.”

      “Ah ha!  You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

      “You shall not pry the secret from my lips.”

      “Oh… you are.  You’re eyes are twinkling and it’s not the fire, because I know that twinkle and this one is the one you get even without firelight when you’re planning something brilliant.  Brilliant!  A brilliant plan has to be doubly brilliant if it’s about my WEDDI… oh, yes.  I probably shouldn’t be shouting since… well, since it’s not actually the right time to be shouting and dancing and making up songs in my head about sherry, is it?”

No, no it likely was not.  More’s the pity.

      “Perhaps not, however, I do believe an exception is permitted for matrimonial matters.  Now though, it might be best to move to other matters of discussion, with an eye on returning to happier topics at a later point.  I wish to begin by reassuring you that I understand your viewpoint, Arthur.  I understand it completely and cannot in any way fault you for it.  I know you are likely concerned, however, do not believe I am angered or bear you any ill will for your feelings.  They are merited and supported by a body of evidence I cannot and will not deny or marginalize.  I only seek to explore those feelings further and offer what reassurance I can that your fears will not come to pass.  On that point, Sherrinford was quite correct.”

Mycroft hoped that the last sentence would provide Arthur with a starting point for his reply and was not disappointed in the least.

      “Doctor Sam was right about a lot of things.  He was one of the rightest people I’ve ever met and I’ve met lots of right people since I became a detective’s assistant.  He knew just how to treat Greg so Greg was happy and laughed and started getting well faster than I ever thought possible.  I know Doctor Watson was a big part of that, but Doctor Sam even helped when he was hurt and didn’t… he shouldn’t have been helping.  He should have been taking care of himself, but he didn’t.  He took care of Greg and you instead.  And he helped those kiddies, too.  I know you did most of it, but Doctor Sam was there at the end and he helped, too.  Doctor Sam is silly and thinks a certain way, but he never treated people badly.  I never once saw him do anything bad to anyone, well except for that fight but he had to since you were being attacked, and you said the meanest thing you possibly could to him.  Doctor Sam spends his life helping people and you said he could hurt Greg.  That you couldn’t trust him to be a good doctor, which he absolutely is.  He’s done nothing but be good for Greg and you… it was so horrible!  I know how I’d feel if you said you thought I’d hurt someone or you didn’t trust me and… it would be as bad as Doctor Sam felt.”

Arthur stopped to take a sip of his Sherry and Mycroft let out the breath he’d been holding.  It was a start.  An ugly and difficult start, but a start it was.  Sherrinford was a buffoon.  A drunken, ridiculous excuse for a man.  However… it was the however that made his gut clench with the familiar pang of guilt.  However, he was a highly competent practitioner.  He had demonstrated that repeatedly, despite his tendency to follow an aggressive pace of treatment.  There was one set of records that Mycroft felt confident was not fabricated and that was his brother’s performance records and they could be called naught but exemplary.  And John was privy to every aspect of his Gregory’s care and never uttered a single negative comment about Sherrinford’s methods.  It had been improper to call Sherry’s medical abilities into question, but trust was a large creature and reached into far deeper and darker corners than one’s job skills.

      “I will concede the point that Sherrinford’s treatment of Gregory cannot be described as anything but excellent and I may have been hasty in accusing him of potential misconduct.  Had he remained in London, I would be willing to offer a sincere apology for my words on that matter.  However, he did not and I cannot, therefore, make amends.”

      “No, that’s true.  I don’t know why Doctor Sam left and I can’t really understand why he would even _think_ about leaving, but he must have had a very good reason, because he wouldn’t have left without one.  I think that maybe… well, I think that maybe Doctor Sam felt things a lot more deeply than most people thought and people like that get _very_ hurt when they get hurt.  Mr. Sherlock’s like that and so are you, though neither of you want people to know, but I think Doctor Sam might even have it worse, because he’s been hurt a _lot_ and every time you get hurt, it makes the next one hurt worse.  I know people say that getting hurt makes it hurt less each time, but that’s not true.  People just get better at hiding it.”

Dear Arthur never failed to set his harpoon directly into the heart of the great whale.  There was no question that Sherrinford’s emotions ran deep, as it did for all their family.  The difference was that he was freer in expressing his feelings… at least the positive ones.  The negative he locked away and let them burn.  Sherlock and himself locked most away and appeared cold for the action.  Sherrinford… ah.  Sherrinford appeared the clown.  The gadfly.  He showed only that part of himself and let it fill his personality to the brim so that no one ever suspected something else might lie beneath.  Hiding from the world in his own way, while simultaneously, experiencing what he could of it.  Very effective and very maddening…

      “I do believe you are correct in saying Sherrinford experiences his emotions deeply and, again, if he were here I would apologize for failing to recognize that fact and the extra measure of harm he would suffer from my words.  I _would_ try to apologize, Arthur.   For those things, I _would_ ask his forgiveness.  However, that is not an option presented to me, so I cannot know the outcome.  You must remember, though, Arthur… I no longer know Sherrinford.  I have not known him for decades and, while I see now the veracity of your assertions, it is with eyes that have had time to consider and reflect.  I was taken aback that night, dear boy.  I shall admit that my mood was not the most pleasant, however, we had a discussion that morning, Sherrinford and I, and it did not lean towards Gregory enjoying such heavy and nutritiously-bankrupt fare.  I was displeased and… I cannot tell you how I worry about Gregory, Arthur.  I love him fiercely and I take any threat to his welfare very seriously.  For that, I will not apologize.  I took what action I felt proper given the circumstances and, though I realize now that I might have been too severe, I shall never apologize for doing my utmost to safeguard the one’s I love.”

      “That’s good.  Really, that’s good and that’s what you should do, though maybe not in such a mean fashion.  But…”

Arthur paused and drained quite a lot of his sherry, which sent a surge of worry through Mycroft, who quickly rose to refill the glass.

      “But what, my boy?  And please to not think to spare my feelings.  We must be honest with each other if we are to successfully bridge this chasm that has opened between us.”

      “I suppose.”

Mycroft waited as Arthur fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt and worried loose a thread that occupied his attention another minute until he felt confident enough to speak.

      “But I remember what happened with Greg, Mycroft.  All of it.  I remember what he looked like after you were so mean to him when Mr. Sherlock and I were on little Helen’s case.  He looked so hurt and ill.  He looked worse than the worse I’ve ever seen a person look, except Skip when Mr. Sherlock and I found him in his van and, well, of course when Greg got shot.  And you cared for him.  You hurt him terribly and you _cared_ for him.  And then… not one apology.  Not one ‘I’m sorry’ for the longest time and I know that for a fact because I kept asking and asking.  So you can say you protect the people you care about, but I have to be a little bit suspicious because you said you cared about Greg and look what happened.  And not one I’m sorry to make it better.”

And that was the truth of it.  Arthur knew better than anyone the details of that terrible time and how inexcusable had been his behavior, both while savaging his Gregory and in the aftermath.  He had failed his partner grievously and allowed that failure to continue to poison his love’s heart and mind for such a _long_ time.  Arthur was right to be suspicious.  To harbor doubts.  He had not given him good reason to believe otherwise, had he?  Gregory had been devastated and healing that breach had been difficult and, perhaps not a gift he deserved.  Arthur though…  Devastated would not be the word.  Annihilated would perhaps be appropriate.  Left in no better shape than someone who stood at the center of an atomic blast.  As forgiving and goodhearted as was the boy, he would not withstand a true Holmes tongue lashing.  That Sherlock never turned his own acerbic words on Arthur was nothing short of a miracle, but then… Sherlock resonated with young Arthur on a level that no one would likely ever understand.  And he did not have the darker side of his older brother’s temper, in any case…

      “I can argue with none of that, I’m afraid.  You were my closest advisor, my greatest friend during that black time and you know well my failings, hurtful and insensitive as they were.  And I can offer no explanation other than what I provided at the time.  I am not always a kind man, Arthur.  For matters of work, I must sometimes be very unkind and, in my personal life… in that area I can be the most scathing because it involves persons that I hold to be more valuable than even myself.  Gregory suffered because I believed you were threatened.  Others have suffered because of harms inflicted on Sherlock.  At the time, all that mattered was that someone I cared for was suffering harm, and yes… I know that you were not actually in jeopardy, but that information was not available to me at the time.  I can never forgive myself for the hurts laid on Gregory and it adds to my shame that he has graciously forgiven me my assaults.  I shall never be perfect, Arthur, but I feel I can offer you some assurances, if you will permit me the opportunity.”

Mycroft looked expectantly at Arthur, who frowned slightly, but finally nodded.

      “Thank you.  Truly, you have my deepest thanks for at giving me this chance.  First… I do not foresee any eventuality where you would, for any reason cause me disappointment or give me reason to worry you would negatively impact any of our family.  Think about that, Arthur… there is no one you would ever take action to harm or by neglect bring to harm, is there?  I cannot think of any possibility and I say that knowing the vast permutations of possible interactions within our little circle.  Therefore, you will never find yourself, whether by intent or accident, in the position which dear Gregory unfortunately occupied.  And you cannot disappoint me, my boy.  You _cannot_ disappoint me.  I have not met an individual so utterly incapable of bringing disappointment as you.  You approach everything with the most appealing enthusiasm and, without fail, give the entirety of yourself to every endeavor no matter how grand or how small.  Sherrinford… I do have reason to expect him to disappoint me.  Perhaps not for medical issues, but for other reasons that are older and more to heart.  But he is not you.  You are a brilliant light in my life, Arthur and that shall not change.”

Mycroft took his own restorative sip of sherry and cataloged Arthur’s features, which gave him some reason to be hopeful.

      “Further, I shall give you something that I have never bestowed on any other individual.  I give you full authority to demand my silence.  At any point, for any reason, regardless of the intensity of the situation, you may demand I cease speaking and remain silent until you give me leave to speak to you again, even if it takes days for that to occur.  And I shall abide by it.  I shall stop and walk away if necessary, to give you peace from whatever I am saying and myself a chance to think about my words.  And you are free to speak without filter while I must listen without rebuttal.  You now own a proverbial off switch, Arthur.  And I give you this as my promise that you can halt anything that gives you worry and because I know that you shall not use it unless you are truly convinced it is warranted, which means I have stepped over the line of acceptable behavior.  Is that… do you find that an encouraging gesture?”

The number of people in this world to whom Mycroft would grovel totaled two, but to those two, no amount of begging, groveling, promising or self-debasing would ever be too much, if it kept these two most special people in his life.

Arthur went to take another sip of his sherry then set it aside because he didn’t want to muddle his thinking right now.  This was important stuff!  Mycroft was being a little twisty with his words, but not as much as he could have been if he really wanted to make a person’s head pop off.  He’d said some nice things, too.  He’d said some _very_ nice things and that was important, even though people said nice things sometimes just to make you feel better and not because they really meant them, which wasn’t actually nice at all, but it didn’t seem like that was the case here.  It wasn’t that hard to know when Mycroft wasn’t being entirely truthful and none of those little wrinkles and eye thingies had shown up once while he was talking.  And no one had given him an off switch before!  Not even Skip, and there were times when he was fairly certain Skip would have loved to have an off switch, when he was being especially talky about something that was absolutely super-amazingly brilliant.  It was a lot to think about, though.  He really was worried and maybe even a little, or a lot, scared, but…

…but it wasn’t fair not to give Mycroft a chance.  Greg did and Greg actually _got_ hurt!  He gave Mycroft another chance and now they were forever boyfriends and going to live happily ever after.  But _he_ actually never got hurt, not one single time, and if he didn’t at least give Mycroft a chance then he was being… he was being as mean as Mycroft was to Doctor Sam.  He’d be doing the same thing, really and that was not at all polite or fair.  And he had his off switch if Mycroft got a bit shouty or did that thing he did when he got upset with Doctor Sam’s silliness when he talked but kept his teeth squeezed together very, very tightly.  There were two things that had to be settled first.

      “That’s very nice of you, Mycroft.  And, it does help.  I won’t say I’m still not a little nervous, but I’m less nervous now and if I get really nervous, I’ll just turn you off so I can have a little think and maybe some juice.”

Mycroft felt his muscles relax and something warm break open and begin to flow through his chest.  He had feared so greatly that Arthur would not be able or willing to even consider continuing their association.

      “Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if I may consider our relationship on firmer footing than when last we spoke?”

      “Yes.  I mean no!  Wait… I got a tad confused, I think.  Or not because I think I gave the right answer, even though the other one was certainly _not_ the right answer.  I guess if you’re asking if we’re ok, then I have to say almost.  I think you’re very sincere with everything you say and I believe it.  But there are a couple of things I need sorted and we can start with… well, I want to know why you saidyou expectDoctor Sam to disappoint you.  I think I know, but I need to make sure.  That’s information and a detective’s assistant has to have all the information the can, and the right information, before they make any conclusions so they don’t accuse the wrong person of being a criminal.”

Ah… trust Arthur to drag the shadows from their hiding places and make them face the light, whether they glowed or burned.  And he had been the one to open the door to that particular subject…

      “Very well.  It is simply that… I cannot say that I have your strength of character and have yet to find it within myself to forgive my brother.  And without forgiveness, there cannot be trust.  I do not know if I shall ever be able to award him forgiveness for his abandonment.  Imagine, if you can, the pain you would feel if Martin were to abandon you.  To vanish one day without a word and never return.  Sherrinford was the greatest irritant in my life, but he was also the most important figure of my youth.  Regardless of how I believe he comported himself, I cannot deny that always acted in what he believed were my best interests and was the only person who truly demonstrated his affections for me in a tangible manner.  Then he was gone and with him, my dreams for my own future.  And he has not changed, Arthur.  He is still the same frivolous, impulsive creature he was as a youth and, using his flight from London as my evidence, as unreliable.  I… I do not know what I want from him and that leaves me unable to form a coherent strategy for navigating our interactions.  I see him now, knowing his identity, and the memories come back.  The horrible memories of waiting for his return.  Of blaming myself for his leaving.  Of fear that Sherlock would be the next to vanish.  I suffered long and still carry thick and heavy scars because of his actions.  Forgiveness is not something I can bestow right now and until I can, I suppose I cannot fully trust.  Further, I harbor the lingering belief that he will eventually betray _any_ trust I bestow and… that is not an easy thing to overcome.”

Arthur’s scrutinizing gaze placed him staunchly in the Holmes clan, though there was not yet any ink on the wedding paperwork.

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  Seriously, thank you for telling me that, because I understand a little better now.  And I’m really, really trying not to think about the part about Skip leaving me, because then I’d get sick and I’d rather not be sick and upset when that’s exactly what I’m trying not to be!  It makes a bit more sense now, though.  I guess I really didn’t think about you being a little kid when Doctor Sam left and how you would have felt.  I… I can understand why it might be hard to be nice to Doctor Sam or believe the things he tells you.  I mean, _I_ believe what he tells me, but he’s never done something like run away and leave me alone, besides this time, that is, but that’s different, since I’m an adult and he’s not my official brother.  I can understand, maybe, why you thought the way you thought, though I’m still not happy about what you said.   And that’s the second thing… you need to find Doctor Sam and tell him you’re sorry for what you said to him.  You can’t let things go like you did with Greg.”

Why Mycroft hadn’t predicted that request he had no idea, because in hindsight, it was exactly what Arthur would ask of him.

      “Arthur, if it was possible, I would already have some idea of his whereabouts.  I set in motion some inquiries as to his location and they have not born fruit.  His furnishings were donated to charity, his bank account was closed and the contents removed in cash.  There are no records of him booking transport by train, bus, boat or plane and he did not rent a car under his own or his assumed name.  There has not been sufficient time for a thorough analysis of all surveillance footage at ports of departure, but I suspect we shall find nothing because Sherrinford does not wish to be found.  He eluded detection for decades, Arthur, and I cannot begin to impress upon you the magnitude of that feat, even given the start he was provided.  Fingerprints, photographs, handwriting existed, but I caught wind of none of it.  I had, though I would not admit it to him, watches and triggers set in place for information relevant to my brother and nothing was ever detected.  If he wishes to be absent, then I do not believe I can alter than fact.”

      “But you have to try!  How can you say you’re sorry and talk to him if you don’t try!”

      “If I knew of a way to _try_ in this situation, my boy, I would gladly do so.”

Arthur glared at Mycroft, but it was more of a glare of concentration than an accusatory one.

      “I know a way.”

Really?

      “Really?  Do tell, because I am bereft of ideas.”

      “Hire Mr. Sherlock.”

The answer to that would be best expressed in derisive laughter, but, since that would offend Arthur…

      “I do not think that is wise.  Sherlock would likely not be invested in the inquiry and refuse outright.”

      “I don’t think that’s true.  Doctor Sam was his brother, too.”

      “And a brother who abandoned him as he did me.  He did not even give Sherlock the chance to know him as a brother, Arthur… why would Sherlock care about him now?”

      “He _does_ care.   I can tell.”

And he probably could, in truth.  To be fair, Sherlock did likely harbor some very hesitant and tentative interest in his brother, but to launch an investigation into his disappearance… it did not seem plausible.

      “And I’ll help!”

      “Pardon?”

      “Well, I helped him find Skip and we really didn’t have many clues for that.  Well, we had a few, but not many and we found him, didn’t we?  And Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam are sort of alike if you think about it and so that should help Mr. Sherlock figure out what he would do and where he would go.  I mean, neither of them really care about what people think and don’t act like people would expect.  And they’re both very smart and clever and tricky and can be a bit silly and off their heads sometimes.  I mean they’re both brilliant people, and that’s brilliant in the brain and Brilliant! brilliant, too, but they’re not quite as normal as you are.  Which is brilliant by the way, because if you weren’t better at not being silly and doing rude things than Mr. Sherlock or Doctor Sam, I don’t know what the world would be like!  Certainly not as nice as it is now.”

No.  No, under no circumstances would Arthur Shappey follow after Sherlock on an investigation to find Sherrinford.  Not that Sherlock would agree to it anyway, even though Arthur did make a valid point about him having a pattern of thinking more like Sherrinford than he did, himself.  Sherlock certainly had Sherrinford’s taste for anarchy, though, and quite fortunately, he did not enjoy sowing his chaos as regularly as did the eldest of them.

      “I know what you’re thinking, you know.”

Says the honorary Holmes, who was the perfect little brother of their clan.

      “And what is that, pray tell?”

      “You’re thinking that I can’t go and help and I’m going to put my foot down right now and say I can if I want to because only Mum can tell me I can’t do something and I can even say no to her if it’s really, really important, like this is.  I have quite a few cases under my belt now, if you remember, and haven’t mucked any of them up, which is a bit amazing, even _I_ have to admit.  So, when I ask Mr. Sherlock if he’ll go and look for Doctor Sam and he says yes, which he will, then I’m going to help him.”

Stated in Arthur’s most adamant voice, which was the jolliest and gentlest adamant voice in the universe.

      “Very well.  What I shall agree to is this – _if_ you can convince Sherlock to undertake the investigation, we shall open again the discussion of your participation and we shall include Martin, because his opinion, as your fiancé should be solicited as evidence for you to weigh in making a final judgment.”

      “Oh… you’re right.  You’re very right.  I _will_ have to talk to Skip about it because that’s what fiancé’s do and the case could take a long time depending on how sneaky Doctor Sam is being.  Brilliant!  See, Mycroft?  Already you’re thinking it’s a good idea because you’re making sure I do things right so I get to help out!”

Ah.  Was that what he was doing?  Foolishly, he was thinking that involving Martin might be somewhat a cautioning act.  However, since Sherlock’s approval was highly doubtful, the issue was likely moot, in any case.

      “Then we have an accord.  Now, let us relax and…”

      “We have to ask Mr. Sherlock.”

      “And we shall.  However…”

      “Right now.  As righty right now as we can.”

Even with the seriousness of the situation, Mycroft had to chuckle at the vibrating ball of enthusiasm trying to sit still in the chair across from him.  Perhaps it was best to nip this in the bud now so they could move to more agreeable things.

      “Very well, I shall send for the car.  Do finish your sherry and we shall depart.”

Arthur’s face broke into a large smile hearing Mycroft making the call to his driver and quickly finished his drink.

      “I’m ready!”

      “Arthur Shappey, did you gulp your fine sherry?”

      “Nope.  I did lots of little sips so I could taste each and every one.  I’m not going to waste my nice sherry, Mycroft.  That would be _very_ stupid.”

      “That it would and, as we both know well, you are in no manner stupid.  I shall, however, spirit our spirits away to the car with us so we might enjoy another glass with Sherlock during our conversation.”

At least that might offer them _something_ to enjoy about the visit, because Arthur’s disappointment in the turn of events was not going to be pleasant for anyone to witness.

__________

      “So… will you?”

Sherlock looked between Mycroft’s indulgent, yet smugly knowing, smile and Arthur’s eager grin and considered the task being asked of him.  The answer was obvious, but John would appreciate it if he broke the news in a kind way, so as not to be unnecessarily rude.

      “We shall begin tomorrow.  I am sorry for disappointing you, Mycroft, but if Sherrinford can be found, he _will_ be found and Arthur and I shall be the ones to do it.”


	3. Chapter 3

      “Absolutely not!  Have you gone mad!”

Martin was certain he must have fallen down the rabbit hole because there was no way in the real world that Arthur was proposing what he seemed to be proposing.  And Sherlock was going along with it!

      “I don’t think so.  I’m pretty sure that if I went mad I would know and I don’t think I know.  But I suppose that if I _was_ mad I wouldn’t be _able_ to know I was mad so I _wouldn’t_ know.  I don’t know.  What do you think?”

      “I think you’ve gone completely mental if you believe you’re traipsing after Sherlock on some ridiculous manhunt!”

      “It’s not ridiculous, Skip.  We’re going to look for Doctor Sam!”

      “Who left voluntarily!  He wanted to leave, so why not just let him!”

A sentiment which had Mycroft’s wholehearted endorsement.

      “You left voluntarily, too, and look what would have happened if Mr. Sherlock and I didn’t find you.  You could still be in your van and… oh, I really don’t like to think about that because you were so sick and mean and rather smelly…”

      “Yes!  Yes, I remember, but that was different.”     

      “How?  You made a choice, carried through with it and that you found yourself in unpleasant circumstances was a product of your own paranoia and chemically-altered senses.  You were sought out to answer for your disappearance and that is the situation here.”

      “And _you_ , Sherlock!  How can you possibly be endorsing this!  First, you don’t like Sherrinford.  Second, you don’t know Sherrinford.  Third, he’s not likely to be living in a van, now, is he?”

      “One could apply the first two of your overly dramatic points to _you_ , just as easily, yet I still took the initiative to implement a search.”

      “Well, thanks for that!”

Martin snarled at the tall detective, who waved away his displeasure with a flick of his hand.

      “Your first point is nonsensical since, with family, the concept of like or dislike is not necessarily appropriate.  Further, I knew you nearly as poorly when we reacquainted as I know Sherrinford.  And I have no idea what lengths Sherrinford would go to escape detection.  John has described his living quarters as moderate, at best, so living beneath his means does not seem to pose him great distress.  Actually, from what I have observed about him, Sherrinford would find living in a van amusingly bohemian.”

      “John!  Help me!”

Eyes turned towards John, who had remained suspiciously silent since the trio burst into the house with Arthur bounding in to say hello again to everyone and begin, with machine-gun cadence, detailing the great plan for finding the third Holmes brother.

      “Sherlock, can we have a word in private.”

Now, all eyes were turned towards Sherlock who wasn’t happy with the scrutiny, especially since John wasn’t smiling.  When John didn’t smile, the conversation wasn’t likely to be pleasant.

      “May I say no?”

      “Not a chance.”

      “Then I happily agree to your request.”

John continued to frown and led Sherlock out of Lestrade’s room, leaving the remaining inhabitants to take a deep breath before the argument started again.  This time, Lestrade jumped in first, hoping to get a better footing on what Sherlock and Arthur were planning.

      “Arthur, are you saying that you and Sherlock are going to actually go and look for Sam?  That’s… and this isn’t a slight against either of you, but that’s a big job.  He could be anywhere in the world!  Are you prepared for how long this could take?  How far you might have to go?  Are you prepared to up and travel around with Sherlock for god knows how long, not flying on your plane or even seeing Martin?  From what I heard, it didn’t take too long to find your fiancé there but… I don’t think that’s going to be the case here.”

      “See, Arthur!  Greg agrees with me.  It’s a daft idea and it’s for the best to put it out of your mind before it burrows too far in.”

      “Here now… I didn’t say it was daft, lad.  I said he should think about it carefully before making any decisions.”

      “Gregory!  You cannot possibly be considering adding your endorsement to this ridiculous scheme!”

      “What!  Look, Mycroft… Arthur’s a big boy and if he decides he’s going to do this, that’s his business.  Anyway, Sherlock’s not a stranger to this kind of thing and he’s not going to let anything happen to either of them.  It’s not like they’re chasing a dangerous criminal or being chased by terrorists, you know.  This sort of investigation is mostly asking lots of questions, checking out leads, staying in one hotel after another... the worst that’ll happen is Arthur gets bored and frustrated and lonely for Martin and wants to come home.  Which will just mean a trip to the airport or train station or whatever to get him back to Fitton.  I don’t see the problem you and Martin seem to be having with all of this.”

Mycroft and Martin both made very Sherlockian snorts and Arthur sidled closer to the only ally he seemed to have in the room.

      “This is crazy… absolutely crazy.  Arthur… I love you dearly and I know I can’t tell you what to do and what not to do but… _please_ think about this!  Sherrinford isn’t going to be easy to find and I don’t want to be without you for what could be months.  I don’t want to be here alone, worrying about you every moment, not knowing what you’re doing or when you’re coming back…”

Arthur rushed back to Martin and gave him a bone-crushing hug, then jumped back to his safety spot near Greg’s bed.

      “I’m going to worry, too, Skip, but this is what detective’s assistants do.  I’m sure Mr. Sherlock is going to be very worried about Doctor Watson all the time, too, but that’s what phones are for!  I’ve got my phone and we can talk and we can watch telly together over the phone and we can even talk face to face because…”

      “Arthur, you know my mobile isn’t exactly capable of that.  It can barely manage the technology to place a call.”

      “Well… yes.  That is true.  Oh!  But I think my phone can talk to the video equipment in my room and we can have a nice chat that way!  Or Mycroft can have all of that moved to your flat and…”

Martin shook his head, but did have to mentally admit that Arthur was fighting valiantly.

      “Love, I don’t think the wiring in that house will accommodate the mission control system you have in your room.”

      “Ok… you might be right about that.  I do remember when I tried to plug in my waffle machine and you didn’t have any electricity for a few days, which everyone said was actually rather nice because they had to use candles, which was quite romantic for those who had boyfriends and girlfriends and they got lots of schoolwork done, too, since they couldn’t watch the telly or have parties with their music and videogames.”

Martin opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off in the most heinous way possible.

      “Don’t worry, Arthur… I’m sure Mycroft can concoct something.  Just ask him.”

Mycroft cut widely-surprised eyes at his lover, who was grinning with as much true innocence as a saucy rent boy.

      “Yes!  Mycroft!  You have to do something!  Skip needs to be able to see me and talk to me and watch movies with me and we’re probably going to leave soon, so you’ll have to do it fast, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you since you seem to be able to get things done _very_ fast, which is absolutely brilliant, but I guess you have to do things fast when you rule the world and if you let something sit, like I admit I tend to do sometimes, well… it could get a bit dodgy and we can’t have that, now can we?  So what are you going to do?”

Gregory would pay dearly for this.  Supporting this lunacy and then making _him_ complicit in the travesty.  However, the expression his dearest was wearing was that of someone who expected nothing less and was looking somewhat forward to it.  Blackguard.

      “I would need to study the situation, Arthur, and…”

Now and again, Mycroft actually surprised himself with an insight.  A small ‘oh’ moment that made his toes curl with glee.  This was one of those times.

      “Actually, I must retract that statement.  I believe I do have an acceptable and easily workable solution.  I have on lease a lovely little residence in Fitton that was obtained for the purpose of Gregory and my lodging for your party.  It is quite empty at the moment and is already provided with all manner of communications technology relevant to your needs.  Martin shall simply take up residence in that location and have access to all of it.  And I will upgrade his mobile to something more appropriate.  I have in my desk, I am most certain, ancestors of my current device that would suit him admirably.”

Arthur’s YES! and Martin’s NO! were perfectly synchronized and Greg had no choice but to laugh at the completely contrasting facial expressions on the pair – one ecstatic and one furious.

      “I am NOT taking your charity!”

      “Martin, it is not charity to occupy a space that is already paid for.  And I view it thusly… whereas I do not expect the crime rate is high in your tidy little hamlet, it must exist and, therefore, the premises could be subject to burglary.  It would be helpful for me to have someone in residence to keep a watchful eye on things.  I would view it as a personal favor if you would agree to this arrangement.”

      “Good try, but no.”

      “But why, Skip?  It seems like a brilliant idea.  We get to talk to each other and have breakfast together and all sorts of things!”

      “And I get to live in a nice house with, I expect, all the utilities paid for.  Don’t you see, Arthur?  This is a prime example of Mycroft at his meddlesome best and I won’t stand for it!”

      “Martin, your agitation is completely without foundation.  Notice that I did not make mention of terminating the lease on your current residence or, in any way, you assuming a permanent occupancy of the property.  However, while Arthur is otherwise occupied, it _would_ be a simple method of assuring continued communication.  Truly, I fail to understand your objection.”

      “Neither do I.  I mean… wait… I _do_ fail to understand.  It really wouldn’t be any different than when we stay in hotels when we fly.  You live in their house and use their water and lights.  You can even watch their telly, when there is one, that is… it’s perfect!  As soon as you’re back you can go straight there and we can talk about your flight home!  Hurray!  This is a great idea!”

Martin glared at Mycroft with an intensity that Mycroft had to admit was actually Holmes-worthy, but it was not going to affect the outcome of this debate.  Now, all he had to do was work on Martin’s continued acceptance of a decent home with reliable conveniences and a relaxing atmosphere so that he was loathe to reject it when the opportunity next presented itself.  Such as when they began looking for a happy residence perfect for a newly-engaged couple…

      “And, as you can see, your fiancé heartily approves and Arthur would not lend his support to an initiative if it were, in any manner, condescending or meddlesome.”

      “Yes!  That’s absolutely true!  And since Mycroft is making preparations for us to be able to chat, it means he’s decided he _wants_ me and Mr. Sherlock to find Doctor Sam, which is BRILLIANT!”

Oh.  Had he?  Apparently, he had.  Well… how nice that Arthur and Gregory had maneuvered him into assent completely without his notice.  This would not be counted on his list of benefits of the love of close family.

      “Well, perhaps without quite your degree of enthusiasm.  And I assure you, Martin, that Arthur and Sherlock will have every resource they could possibly desire available to them, both for physical comfort and safety, as well as their investigatory pathways.  As much as I am loathe to admit it… I highly doubt there would be any cause for concern over Arthur’s well-being and he _does_ possess his emergency number which, I can assure you, functions worldwide.  In fact, young Arthur has probably not had an opportunity to notice, but his phone is quite capable of operating in any location.  I insisted that a few minor upgrades be installed before it was delivered.”

That actually did make Martin a little happier.  If Mycroft had already provided Arthur with a magic phone, in more ways than one, then… no, this still wasn’t good.  It was _not_ a good idea for Arthur to go prancing around with Sherlock but… Arthur _wanted_ to prance.  He would go off and have a marvelous time being a detective and probably have wonderful adventures and find lot of excitement… everyone seemed to be able to bring more happiness to Arthur’s life than he could.  Perfect.  Arthur gets a film-quality adventure and _he_ gets depressed again.  In his charity house.  Alone.

Mycroft didn’t need much in the way of deductive ability to read the signs Martin was projecting and found his heart aching for the young man who was quickly becoming the one most impacted by this decision.  It was easy to forget that Martin was struggling with many issues, and this was not going to help with any of them.  He would have to speak with John about the likelihood of Martin returning to, as Arthur termed it, _his little problem_ , and what might be done to turn the boy’s mind away from that direction.  A quick glance at his lover found that Lestrade also seemed to sense something unpleasant radiating off of the captain, even if he wasn't entirely certain what was its cause.  They, too, would have a discussion once this matter had been settled.

      “Well, that’s something.  Look, Arthur… do as you like.  It’s your life and I don’t have the right to put my nose in it.  Just think things through, alright?  Now, I could use some water.”

Martin turned and left the room, with Arthur staring at the door that the pilot closed behind him.

      “Mycroft?  Greg?”

The two older men looked between each other and Mycroft hoped he was successfully pleading his case for Lestrade to take the lead with this discussion.  Fortunately, the Detective Inspector hadn’t lost his police senses.

      “Martin’s upset, Arthur.  I can understand it, though… no matter what the reason, he’s going to be left alone until you finish up your case and that’s not an easy thing to live with.  I’m sure John’s giving Sherlock a piece of his mind on that very thing right now.  And talking over the phone, even one of Mycroft’s magic mobiles, isn’t the same thing as seeing someone in person every day.  He’s worried about you, too, and I can’t blame him.  Not that you’re likely to run into any trouble, but he won’t be there if you do and that’s something else that’s hard to handle.  I know the first time Mycroft goes off on some big trip, I’m going to be worried.  It’s just what people do.”

Mycroft nodded fondly and was glad that Lestrade hadn’t caught onto all that was bothering Martin.  He did not need that burden at the moment and Mycroft reminded himself that, though his partner was putting up a good front, he was still recovering from last night’s trauma.  Another conversation in which they would engage as soon as they had some time alone.  Lestrade had slept soundly last night due to John’s medical intervention, but numerous small signs indicated he still carried some effects from the stress and pain he had suffered and that was not acceptable to Mycroft’s mind.  Under no circumstances was his Gregory going to see his progress impacted by poor decisions or hasty actions on anyone’s part.  And, for all his lunacy, none of Sherrinford’s questionable actions had ever pushed back Lestrade’s recovery.  It was difficult and uncomfortable to admit, but Gregory had thrived under Sherrinford’s chaotic care and, though John was doing an excellent job, it was niggling in Mycroft’s mind that a Holmes eye on the situation, a Holmes eye replete with medical training, was undoubtedly the best possible situation for his beloved’s recovery.

      “Oh… I guess you’re right.  I’m going to miss him, too.  A LOT!  But… this is _important_.  Doctor Sam is out there somewhere thinking he’s not loved or wanted and that’s not right.  In fact I get a little weepy thinking about Doctor Sam being alone somewhere without anybody to care about him, especially since he’s lost the people he cared about before and now it’s happened again and that really… oh, I think I need a tissue, but no!  Detective’s assistants don’t get weepy because they have a job to do and it’s hard to be Brick Steel if you’ve got weepy eyes!  Ok… so I’ll save that for when we’ve found Doctor Sam, but I can still feel sad and try to do everything I can to help him not be sad and alone, even if it means _I_ have to be a little sad and alone for little while.”

Well, Mycroft certainly could not doubt Arthur’s dedication to his task, now could he?  Or call his convictions into question.  Though it was highly unlikely that Sherrinford was pining away somewhere, devastated by the disconnection from his family.  Again.  Most assuredly there would be no dwelling on the ‘again.’    Mycroft’s mind replayed the conversation in which he had attempted to convince his brother to participate in the cocktail gathering and one phrase was especially memorable – _let me assure you that I’ve walked away from more than you could ever offer, lost more than you can ever dream_.  It had made little sense then, but now…  no, now was not the time to dwell on such things.  There were more pressing matters to attend to, such as laying groundwork for Arthur’s safe and comfortable investigation and… taking time to soothe his lover’s gleeful stress.  Gregory should be resting and not attempting to orchestrate this undertaking from his hospital bed.

      “That is quite admirable of you, Arthur.  Very altruistic.  Now, perhaps you should go and have a word with Martin to help to alleviate his lingering concerns and I shall discuss with Gregory how was his day.  Later, we may enjoy a meal together, if you believe you can spare the time.”

      “Of course I can!  Eating is always more fun with lots of people!  I’ll go find Skip and have our little chat, then we can talk about eating, which is something I love to talk about, so I’m looking forward to it already!”

Arthur bounded out of the room in search of his fiancé and Mycroft turned his most stern visage to his lover, who was giggling and certainly did not mark how weak that giggle was becoming.

      “Gregory Lestrade, your conduct was most willfully difficult in this conversation.”

      “Hey!  Someone’s got to have Arthur’s back against you lot.  He’s _not_ a kid, Mycroft, though I admit he still holds onto the best bits of _being_ a kid.  If he wants to go off with Sherlock, that’s his decision.  Yes, if I really thought there’d be a problem, I’d say something, but what’s going to happen?  Sherlock’s not going to do something loony with Arthur in tow; I think he’s proved well enough that he’s got a soft spot for the boy and would self-destruct if he let anything happen to Arthur.  He knows the boy’s not John, Mycroft, so he doesn’t do things the way he and John would do them.  Don’t let this turn into something it’s not, love.”

And Gregory had full rights to be worried on that particular point, owing to the last time he’d voiced an opinion on the issue of Arthur’s safety.  Well, perhaps _voiced an opinion_ was not the right description… disgracefully tore to shreds the only person who his heart could ever love was, likely, a tad better.  Mycroft sighed mightily and very gently sat on the edge of Lestrade’s bed.

      “I worry, Gregory and, for that, I will offer no apologies.  However, you are correct in that Arthur is free to make his own decisions and, ultimately, I will not override them for this endeavor.  I simply wish to make him very aware of all possible ramifications of his decision so he can make the decision as informed as possible.  Now, my second agenda item.  You should not overstress yourself, my dear.  Already it is obvious you are suffering from our small debate.”

Lestrade’s juvenile faces were something Mycroft was quickly growing to adore.

      “I’m fine.”

      “Gregory… you are dissembling.  You are perhaps not lethally-compromised, but you should not lose sight of your current health status and any events that may or may have been impactful.  Such as last night’s outing.  I am sorry for all of it, my dear.  I should have demonstrated more foresight and…”

      “There you go again. _I_ made the decision to go, Mycroft.  _Me_.  I could have told you right away when I knew something was wrong and didn’t.  It’s my fault I took a beating, not yours.  You did everything you could to help when you saw I needed it and that’s the most I can ask of you.  I’ve gotta live with my decisions, just like Arthur’s going to have to live with his.  Don’t take on guilt you don’t own, Mycroft.  Nothing good comes from that.”

Unfair.  Gregory should not stoop to using reason during a disagreement.  It was entirely unfair and they would have words about this very thing at a later date.

      “And don’t purse your lips at me, hoping I’ll change my mind because I’m picturing us kissing.”

Oh… not that he had been trying such a thing, but it was an interesting tactic to consider in the future, considering the slight grin on his lover’s face. 

      “Perish the thought.  I would never use such underhanded methods.”

      “Yeah, you would.  I just probably wouldn’t actually catch you at it.”

True.  But Gregory need not know that particular fact.

      “Regardless… do you truly believe this is the correct path for Arthur?  Sherlock I do not fret over as this is very much his bailiwick but...”

      “You should.”

      “Very well, I concede that I should maintain a general concern for my brother’s well-being, however…”

      “I don’t mean that.  I mean this one instance, you _should_ worry.”

Now Mycroft was thoroughly confused and could only hope that his partner was inclined to help resolve that confusion.

      “Will you explain to me why that is the case?”

      “Love, his whole world’s been turned on end.  Yours too, but I think it’s worse for him.  He didn’t know Sam, didn’t have any idea of him as a person and then poof!  Here he shows up in a fucking whirlwind of… Sam… and what’s Sherlock going to think?  Probably who is this nutter and what would life have been like if he was around all those years.  And now he’s got no data to work with to figure it out and you know how that affects him.  I think… I think he really wanted that, too. Wanted to have the time to figure out more about Sam, I mean.  Sherlock acted different around your brother than I would have expected, probably because Sam knew which buttons to push and that got Sherlock curious.  Then to find out it was his brother… think of all the questions!  All the calculations and deductions… and all the other things besides that.   The things I’m sure he’s not comfortable with and doesn’t want to talk about because he’d have to admit that he was feeling something and you know how he is for that!  He’s not talking to John or me about it, either, so yeah… I’m worried.  I think you should be, too.”

Dear Sherlock… his emotional borders had been under siege since they received the signal for Martin’s disappearance and he had done so well allowing those borders to be retracted, at least for some people and yes… yes, it _would_ cause him great confusion to find himself in a situation such as this.  And cause him distress that he had no avenue for alleviating that confusion.  Perhaps he _should_ worry about his brother’s well-being, but it was difficult to do so.  Sherlock had support now, more support that _he_ had ever been able to provide, or, rather, more than Sherlock had before been willing to accept.  And that support would deny him nothing in the way of assistance for his troubles.  John, Arthur, Gregory, even Martin would lend their shoulder to his cause whenever it was required, even if Sherlock never uttered a word to ask for it.  Further, and this was certainly a consideration, an investigation would be good for him.  Give him purpose and focus.  Set a goal to achieve.  And that goal would also bring him the information he needed to salve other issues.

      “I believe my worry for Sherlock will mean nothing to him, however, I shall offer it to you and you can disperse it as a measure of your own so he might accept it.  Do you think, perhaps, he would agree to additional members of his investigatory unit?  Individuals under his command who…”

      “Stop.  You already know the answer to that and so do I.  It would be good if he would, though, I admit.  A few more ears to the ground is always a good thing, but he’ll want to do this like he always does…solo.  Or as solo as you can be with your trusty assistant at your side.  It’s going to be fine, Mycroft.  Be happy for them – Arthur gets another case and Sherlock gets to do something he enjoys and spend time with Arthur, too.  That’s good for him, too, and you know it is.”

      “I do… Sherlock has benefitted greatly from his friendship with Arthur.  I simply wish they could continue their association in a less active manner.  But, your points are valid and I cannot see any further path of argument besides the venerable ‘because I said so’ and I do not think I have quite yet devolved to that state of mental insolvency.”

      “And I, for one, am happy for it.  I can’t even think about the amount of mess your devolvement would make and I don’t like pushing a mop even when I’m feeling in top shape.”

      “Do not fear, my dear, I shall hire someone to tidy should the situation arise.”

      “Oh good… glad I found someone who doesn’t want a wife with charwoman’s hands.”

Even though it was mean as a jest, Mycroft couldn’t help the shudder of pleasure that ran through him.  The future… a time in the future when Gregory was well and hale and they had enjoyed time together so his lover would never doubt the offer was made from pity… there _would_ be an offer.   An offer made sincerely and lovingly and with such great hope for their eternal happiness that he would scarcely be able to speak the words necessary to ask the question.

      “I do have tender skin.”

      “And I do love every inch of it.  Any chance I can have a few inches before the kids come back?”

How fresh.  And his Gregory’s impish smile said the freshness was very intentional.  Such a shame they had no time and his lover had no strength to fully explore that intent.

      “I believe the term ‘few’ is appallingly insufficient.”    

      “I would completely agree and feel blessed every day because of it. Well, that’s one of the reasons I feel blessed.  Why don’t you go ahead and kiss me while I think of the others?”

      “That is a request I shall be delighted to grant.”

Nothing in the world could compare to the feeling of sharing affection with his dear Detective Inspector.  And there was no pressing reason to make this sharing anything but prolonged and enthusiastic…

__________

      “Ok… what’s going on with you?”

John felt like he was standing on a thin layer of ice overlaying a deep, bitter pool even though he couldn’t actually put a finger on the reason for the feeling.

      “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

      “Bollocks.  You’ve been… you haven’t been _you_ since Sam left.  And no matter what I try, you won’t talk about it, but you’ll go caravanning around the globe at the drop of a hat with Arthur!”

      “Would you go?”

John stopped short and blinked at the taller man, still as opaque and closed off as he had been since the night their happy family had fractured.

      “What are you talking about?”

      “I would ask you to accompany me, but I do not believe you would agree.  Lestrade requires care and with no replacement for Sherrinford presenting themselves, I do not see you leaving London.  However, if I am mistaken, I would welcome your assistance.”

      “Don’t try and change the subject!  And you _know_ I’d go if Greg didn’t need me.  I don’t understand this, Sherlock… I’ve barely gotten you to say two words this past week and… Martin was right – you didn’t even like Sam!”

      “I fail to see your basis for making that assessment.”

      “I… wait.  Are you saying you _did_ like him?  God, I sound like a primary-school boy.”

      “I… have given the situation thought, however, that is not a question I am prepared to answer at this time.”

      “Oh no… you’re not playing that game.  Sherlock, what is going on?  Are you… were you hoping to have Sam back in your life?  I’m not trying to be dismissive or make it sound like that’s a bad thing, I just don’t understand it.”

      “Are you unhappy because I may be gone for an extended period?  You have demonstrated great reticence to part company for any length of time and I am now curious that…”

      “WHAT!  Did you… you did not just say that.  How dare you say that… for your information, _anyone_ would be unhappy if their lover was picking up and running off to who knows where for who knows how long!  That was a stupid question and you know it was and I don’t… WHY WON’T YOU TALK TO ME?”

John had no idea why he was seething with frustration, but seeing Sherlock’s still-stoic face made him want to hit something.

      “Perhaps because there is nothing to say.”

      “Oh my god… there is lots to say, Sherlock.  _Lots_ to say and you just don’t want to.  Or maybe you can’t, which hurts me worse because it means you’re afraid I won’t understand or won’t listen or take you seriously which is completely SHIT and cuts like a straight razor if you want the truth and…”

John’s increasingly angry and rambly speech was cut short by his being pulled into a tight embrace by his partner, who simply held him until some of the anger and tension bled away.

      “There is nothing to say, John.  I don’t know what else you need to hear, but I assure you that there is nothing at this time to say.  When there is, you shall hear it.  All of it.”

There had to be, though.  Sherlock had spent a week in a thick-shelled cocoon that he normally only crawled into when his moods hit the blackest depths, but he’d not had one of those moods in quite some time.

      “There is not, John, I promise you.”

Bloody mind reader.  Ok… Sherlock wasn’t ready or able to talk.  Nothing had gotten him to yet, and nothing likely would, short of threatening to leave him, which was both grossly immature and too heart-clenching to contemplate.  So, he had to wait.  Grin and bear it.  Wait and suffer the loneliness and the uncertainty and the goddam terror of Sherlock being away for a period of time that could stretch… another thing he couldn’t bear to think about.  Time to be the brave little soldier.

      “Fine.  When there is, I’ll be waiting.”

And Sherlock set a small harpoon into that promise, testing the line to make sure it was firm and strong.  It would need to be because that would be his lifeline for the next days or weeks or months until he was back here in John’s arms.

      “It is the one thing in the world I feel I can count on.  I do love you, John.  Do not think that has or will ever change.”

And that was John’s own lifeline.  People might think him foolish for believing it, but he held on to that promise with a grip that would never loosen.

      “Ok then… time to get you packed?”

      “I don’t know.  I expect we will remain in London at least a few days to craft a plan of attack.”

      “Arthur will love that.”

      “To some extent.  I doubt that it will fully hold its appeal without Martin present to share his experiences.”

      “Christ, you’re right.  Here I am yelling about you going away and I forgot that… Martin.  Sherlock, this is _not_ going to be good for Martin.”

      “I am aware of that, however, Martin is not, despite appearances, entirely fragile.”

      “Sherlock, he’s a newly recovering addict whose main source of support is about to go on walkabout with someone who… someone he has some fairly unpleasant history with.  This is going to be hard on him.  Very hard and very dangerous.”

      “You shall maintain contact with him, will you not?”

At least Sherlock’s voice had lost some of its flatness and it gave John a boost to hear the concern in the detective’s voice.  Little steps every day, but each step was something he treasured because there had been a time he wasn’t entirely sure Sherlock would be able to take those steps. 

      “Absolutely, but it won’t be the same.  Arthur’s been working hard to encourage him and keep him clean.  I’m not really a substitute for that.”

      “Mycroft will ensure they maintain fertile lines of communication.  Martin will _not_ be completely out of contact with Arthur and, as we know, Arthur is very skilled at using any means of communication to its maximum potential.”

      “That’s true… that is very, very true.  And I do believe you, Sherlock, but – it’s not the same.  I’m not saying Martin is automatically going to collapse in a big puddle of despair or turn back to drugs, but the risk is a lot higher and the doctor in me is having a problem with that.”

Sherlock gave John a small kiss on the top of his head and squeezed his shoulders tightly to show support.

      “I have full faith that if there is a pressing need you will take appropriate action.  If necessary, Mycroft will simply hire their little airline again and sequester Martin here until his difficulties can be brought under control.”

      “Oh wonderful… Mycroft swoops in to the rescue.  That will not go down easily.”

      “Nor should it.  Any interaction with Mycroft should be as difficult to swallow as a snifter of sewage.”

      “Lovely.  Sherlock, you _will_ promise to be safe, won’t you?  I know better than anyone what the job is like, but don’t go looking trouble just for fun, ok?”

      “I have no plans to do anything beyond discovering Sherrinford’s location and bringing him back to London.”

      “Hah!  Good luck with that.  Just find him and if anyone needs to talk to him, they can make the trip.”

      “You seem to lack confidence in my powers of persuasion.”

      “It’s more like I know how much Sam enjoys being stubborn and he fights dirty.”

      “I shall use Arthur as a shield.”

      “Forgot about Arthur!  Ok, he’ll be putty in your hands.”

Finally, Sherlock began to relax, hearing the honest levity in John’s voice.

      “And I promise to conduct matters safely, John.  For both my sake and Arthur’s.”

John looked up and stared into Sherlock’s eyes a few moments before resting his head on the taller man’s chest and soaking in as much of his warmth as he could.

      “I’ll kill you if you don’t, you know that, right?”

      “And I would not lift a finger to stop you.”

__________

      “Skip!  Why… oh no...”

Arthur found Martin in the kitchen, sitting at the table, looking for all the world like he was going to find a knife and use it to give his blood a way to make a quick exit from his body.  The steward raced forward and scooped up the distraught ginger captain, placing Martin on his lap as he took his own seat.

      “No, Skip… don’t look so sad.  That’s making me sad and both of us can’t be sad because I don’t know what I’d do with all of that sadness!  It’s all going to be fine, you know.  Me and Mr. Sherlock are just going to do our detective work and you how what a brilliant job we do on our cases.  I bet we find Doctor Sam faster than you can say pink polka-dot piggy and then we’ll be back and Doctor Sam will be back and Mycroft will say he’s sorry and they’ll forgive each other and then everyone will be happy again.”

Martin let out a large sigh and Arthur was not sure why his fiancé’s face was starting to shift from sad to angry.

      “Until the next crisis.  That’s all they are, Arthur… one crisis after another.  One insult after another.  One hurt after another.  Get involved with them and do not expect that you’re going to have a particularly happy life afterwards.  I’d hoped it’d be different for you, but apparently they can even hurt someone as wonderful as you are and that takes talent!  That takes being the very best at being hurtful and aren’t we lucky to know them!”

      “Skip?  What are you talking about?  Who is they?  Or them?  Either, really, because I’m confused about both.”

      “Mycroft!  And Sherlock!  And… Sherrrinford, I suppose, the bastard.  They do what they want, get what they want and don’t care who they hurt in the process!”

Martin tried to get off of Arthur’s lap, but Arthur held him more tightly and caged Martin’s legs in his own to keep the pilot from wriggling away.

      “Skip, I think you’re going a little off your head again, so we’re going to sit here until you’re back _on_ your head.”

      “Let go of me, Arthur Shappey!”

      “I’m going to have to say no, because you only shout when you’re going slightly daffy and the best place for you to be daffy is right here where I can help dedaffify you.”

      “I’m not daffy!  Tell me… you tell me honestly if those… Holmes!... aren’t the source of a lot of pain.  Look at what they’ve done, Arthur!  Look at what they still do!  And you want to go off with one, looking for _another_ one, when you really should be looking for a way out of their web!”

Martin kept wriggling and Arthur held on as gently as he could, while still keeping Martin under control and not running around the kitchen looking for weapons.

      “Nobody’s perfect, Skip.  And, if I do say so myself, I’m not clueless about people and  I’ve seen and heard lots of what they’ve done, well, maybe not Doctor Sam, as much, but I know he hurt Mycroft a lot when he left and Mycroft was just a little boy.  Mr. Sherlock and Mycroft don’t always do things nicely, I do have to admit, but they’re trying!  I know that for absolutely, positively certain and that’s what people do when maybe they’re not quite so good at something.  You had to try lots to get your pilot’s license, but you finally did, didn’t you?  It didn’t mean you could never do it, it just meant you had to work a bit harder at it than other people.  That’s like Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock.  They have to work harder at it than other people and they are!  Mr. Sherlock is trying very hard to not be so rude all the time and Mycroft is trying very hard to be nicer and show people that he cares about them.  But… if you really, really, really, really, really don’t want me to help Mr. Sherlock find Doctor Sam… then I won’t.  If it’s going to make you that upset and sad and maybe do daffy things that I know you’d rather not talk about because you don’t like to talk about your little problem and how daffy it can make you sometimes, then… well, then I’ll tell Mr. Sherlock that I can’t help him.  We can even go home right now, if that will make you feel better. I love you, Skip and I do want to help Mr. Sherlock find Doctor Sam, but what I want most is for you to be happy.”

Martin slowly relaxed as the words sank into his head and he opened his mouth to tell Arthur what a great idea that was, but felt the words die in his mouth when he saw the look in Arthur’s eyes.  It was the most loving, devoted look one person could give to another and you do _not_ repay that love and devotion by taking away something important to the person _giving_ the look.  Yes, he 5x-really wanted Arthur not to help Sherlock, but Arthur wanted to 10x-really do it and if he took the out Arthur was offering he’d be little better than the damnable Holmes family he was ranting about, causing hurt just to get what he wanted.  Well, he may have _some_ of their blood, but he was not going to follow in their footsteps!

      “Arthur Shappey, do you promise that you’ll call every chance you get?”

Arthur’s eyes lit up with an excitement that made Martin angry at himself for ever trying to make his fiancé give up on his adventure.

      “I double triple super-duper cross my heart promise.”

      “Do you promise that if Sherlock tries to do something stupid, you’ll say no and not follow him into whatever stupidity he’s heading for?”

      “I promise to do my best not to be stupid or let Mr. Sherlock be stupid.”

      “Do you promise that if you need something you’ll ask Mycroft right away and if you get into trouble you’ll use your emergency number?”

      “I’ll ask Mycroft for help whenever we need it and I’ll have him make the icon on my phone even bigger and brighter so I see it every time I use my phone and, that way, I’ll never forget it’s there.”

      “Then… have a fun time, love.”

      “HURRAY!  This is brilliant!  Thank you, Skip… oh, thank you thank you thank you!”

Arthur’s restraining hold became a tight, jubilant hug, which was returned by Martin with as much jubilation as he could muster.  He still wasn’t happy and he still thought it was a bad idea but… but that wasn’t the important thing right now.  The man he loved was happy and Sherlock, for all his misery, wouldn’t, at least, go out of his way to put Arthur in danger.

      “You’re welcome, love.  I’ll even tell Carolyn, so you don’t have to do it.  She’s going to have your head for this, you know.”

Arthur’s strangled yelp actually made Martin laugh.

      “I forgot about Mum.”

      “That you did.”

      “She _is_ going to have my head.”

      “Maybe Sam can sew it back on for you.”

      “I’ll make sure that’s the first thing I ask him.”

      “Somehow I don’t think he’ll be surprised.”

__________

Despite Arthur’s long and colorful pleas, Martin stood firm with his decision to travel back to Fitton immediately, rather than linger until Arthur and Sherlock started on the more active part of the investigation.  John had Greg to tend to, Mycroft had work, Sherlock and Arthur were going to be… doing who knows what… and that wouldn’t leave _him_ with anything to occupy his time.  Already he was feeling a little awkward after his outburst, but being the extra wheel was just going to add to that.

      “Martin, I’m going to check on you, alright?  Just a call now and then to see how you’re doing.”

      “John, you don’t have to worry.”

      “Yes, I think I do.  And for the same reason I’m worried about myself… it’s hard to be the one left behind and it’ll do me some good to be able to talk to someone else in that position.  I think it’ll be good for you, too.”

Well, if John was going to be practical about things… and not make a big deal about why he’d really be calling…

      “Ok then, I’m looking forward to it.”

      “That’s what I want to hear.  Sherlock?  Anything to say to Martin?”

      “No.”

      “Wonderful.  Glad to see you working on those social skills.  He means he’ll do everything in his power to take care of Arthur and bring him back to you as good as new.”

      “That is self-evident, John, so why would I waste time verbalizing the concept?”

      “No reason at all, Sherlock.  I lost my head there for a moment.  I’m sure Martin understood things better than I did.”

Not that Martin did, but hearing Sherlock argue his position, albeit contemptuously, was reassuring.

      “Thanks, Sherlock.  You too, John.  Greg… Mycroft… try to keep an eye on things for me.”

      “Don’t worry, lad.  Everything’s going to go smoothly and if it doesn’t, Mycroft is going to stomp the bumps flat as my smooth, firm stomach.”

      “Gregory… is it impossible for you to behave?”

      “No, but it’s not any fun, so I’m ignoring it.”

      “Martin, be glad your better half is not such a rapscallion.”

      “I’m thankful every day.  And… I guess I’ll just pack a bag and start my term as houseguest tonight.  Might as well get used to my temporary home as soon as possible.”

Which relieved Mycroft to no end.  At least Martin wouldn’t be going home alone and to a noisy, insufficiently-provided residence.  And, perhaps, this might make him more agreeable to the coming conversation about changing residences permanently.  Once Arthur returned, there would likely be a very strong drive to never let the man out of his sight again and Mycroft was ready to pounce on that like a cat on a rat.

      “I am greatly appreciative of your assistance.  Do let us know when you have settled yourself, so our own worries may be assuaged.  Oh, and I also believe Gregory has expressed interest in watching one of his damnable… I mean, delightful… sporting events tomorrow and perhaps you could share the experience with him.  John will also be in attendance and, I am told, these things are best suffered… enjoyed… in a group.”

Lestrade landed a surprisingly strong punch on Mycroft’s bottom and giggled when the elder Holmes turned and mouthed ‘you will kiss that later’ away from young, impressionable eyes.

      “That sounds good, actually.  I’ll definitely login for that.  Well, I guess I’d better go if I want to have time to get used to that mass of equipment, so I actually can join the fun tomorrow.  Arthur, walk me to the car?”

A flurry of goodbyes and well-wishes followed Martin and Arthur out of Lestrade’s room and Martin took Arthur’s hand to hold as they walked out to the car waiting to take him to his transportation back to Fitton, a plane this time, in a nod to Martin’s less-than-joyful helicopter journey when they arrived.

      “Well, Arthur… this is goodbye.”

      “Just for a little while.  And I can probably watch the match, too, because I bet Mr. Sherlock and I won’t have lots of clues by tomorrow night, so we’ll get to watch together!  And I’ll call and we can talk and I promise that Mr. Sherlock and I will find Doctor Sam absolutely as fast as we possibly can, because I want to be back with you the very second I’m able to.”

      “I know you will, Arthur.  I don’t doubt that for a minute.  I love you, my gorgeous fiancé.  Be safe.”

Arthur Shappey blushing was positively the most thrilling thing Martin’s eyes had ever seen and he never could help but smile when he was privileged to watch that pink flush light up Arthur’s cheeks.

      “I will, Skip.  And I love you, too.  Every handsome bit of you.”

Martin laughed and leaned in, kissing Arthur slowly and tenderly, until the need for air finally broke them apart.

      “Bye, Arthur.”

      “Bye, Skip.”

Martin had lots more he wanted to say, but knew he’d wind up blubbering like a baby, so simply gave Arthur a final peck on the cheek and got in the car, waving as it large sedan pulled away and started down the road.

For his part, Arthur watched until he was sure that not even his imagination was seeing the car anymore and turned to go back inside.  It already hurt, too.  It already hurt to be away from his Skipper and to think about being away from him for a long time, made the hurt worse.  But it was exciting, too.  He was starting a new case!  A big case!  And when they found Doctor Sam, they’d all be together and, as fast as Greg was getting well, it wouldn’t be that long before WEDDING!  With a little skip in his step, the steward danced back inside and gave big hugs to everyone waiting for him.  It was good to have family, especially a family as wonderful as his.

__________

Martin spent the plane ride pointedly not being envious of the sleek, shiny aircraft.  Or the tall and broad-shouldered pilot, even though the man called him Captain Crieff, the whole trip and was happy to let him sit in the cockpit and talk about airplanes the entire time.  And zero envy at the car waiting to take him to his flat where, he was absolutely not surprised, he didn’t see his van, which had likely already been moved to his new home and given a full tank of petrol, to boot.

It didn’t take much time to pack away the few things he was going to take with him and within ten minutes he was back in the car, heading out of the heart of Fitton to a quiet area where the houses were widely spaced and well-maintained and he almost started laughing when the car pulled up to a small-ish house that would have made Arthur gasp in sheer happiness.  A yard and garden and a big tree where one could hang bird feeders… a house that was not large, but a good size for two people who had guests now and then… chimney, so that meant a fireplace… it would probably meet Arthur’s mental picture of his perfect ‘little house’ beautifully.  With that small thing, Martin suddenly felt a lot better about the situation.  This was just temporary and, even if it _was_ Mycroft’s charity, he couldn’t deny that the place was simply sitting here and _would_ be whether he was staying or not.  And now, he felt a little connection with his absent fiancé and nothing in the world could be wrong with that.

With a thank-you to the driver, Martin shouldered his bag and pulled out the scrap of paper on which he’d written the punch code to the electronic lock Mycroft had installed on the door.  After a few quick taps, he heard the click of the door unlocking and pushed it open to step inside.  Yes… Arthur would be beside himself with glee.  Tidy, comfortable, fire in the fireplace…

Fire in the fireplace?

      “Come on in, Martin!  I didn’t expect you quite so soon, but shit… I’m getting old, so my brain is crapping out on me right and left.  Grab a beer if you want one.”

Martin dashed after the sound of the voice and nearly screeched seeing Sam stretched out on the sofa, a beer bottle in one hand and a book in the other.

      “You…”

      “Beer first, questions later.  Might as well get comfortable, Martin.  We’re going to be roomies for awhile…”


	4. Chapter 4

      “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

      “Goddammit, Martin!  Stop screeching.  I’m right here, you know.”

      “And that’s the problem!  I’m calling Arthur and put a stop to his…”

      “You most certainly are not.  Arthur’s probably thrilled to have an adventure to go on and you’ll be a complete asshole if you punch a dent in his plans.  Just settle down, get your beer or milk if you want to continue being a big baby and we can talk.  Shoo.”

Martin snarled at the older man, who kept a single middle finger pointed up and at him until the captain snorted loudly and stalked off to find the kitchen, opening a bottle and taking a large sip before stalking back to where Sam was still reclining and waiting for him.

      “Good boy.   Now, sit.  I’d let you have a piece of the couch, but first, I don’t want to and second, the less I move around right now, the happier I am.”

There was something in the tone that grabbed Martin’s attention and he suddenly remembered _why_ he and Arthur had gone to Sam’s flat the day they found his cousin gone.  Arthur had been frantic to check on the doctor’s condition since there was no one else to, as Arthur put it, make sure he wasn’t oozing.

      “I… how are you doing?”

      “Fair.  Or so.  Maybe, just maybe, mind you, I didn’t pay good enough attention and ran myself a little ragged so things took a teensy-weensy downturn there for a bit, but nothing I couldn’t handle with a fistful of pilfered antibiotics and a bit of impromptu cutting and restitching.  At least where I could actually reach.  God I miss my nurse, the splendiferous Arthur.  I’d take him into the OR with me any day.”

That sounded ugly, so Martin put the question and answer out of his head for the sake of his stomach, which was already a little roily from the beer hitting said stomach and finding itself without the benefit of any friends, such as food products.

      “Wow, you go green fast, don’t you, kid?  Here…”

Sam tossed Martin his mobile and the pilot scrambled to catch it.

      “Just hit redial and it’ll call what you here in this burg call a pizza joint.  Order up what you want and tack on a large with everything for me.  Nothing better than loaded pizza for dinner _and_ breakfast.”

It was a mark of Martin’s escalating confusion that he obeyed without question and ignored the guilty stab from fraternizing with the enemy and letting him pay for the food, too.  After the order was placed, Martin sat a moment, staring at his cousin and tried his hand at the famous Holmes family science of deduction.  Sam’s smile was as completely annoying as usual, but it was also weary and it looked like the man had lost some weight.  There were three, no four, beer bottles on the floor and now that Martin thought about it, the room seemed especially warm due to the very substantial fire, as if the occupant was feeling particularly cold, even though it wasn’t really that cool an evening.  So Sam was still hurting, likely sick, fatigued… and doing not much more, probably, than living on pizza and alcohol because he was the stupidest individual on the face of the Earth.  Or just couldn’t bring himself to care.  As much as Sam didn’t deserve it, Martin was losing his desire to just start throwing punches in hopes of getting the information he wanted.

      “Are you ever going to tell me why you’re here?  _How_ are you here?  I know Mycroft had to have men crawling over the place before I arrived, so…”

      “Do you know how to hide in plain sight?  Don’t hide.  Be right out there for anyone to see.”

      “Ok, that’s idiotic.  This house is supposed to be empty and…”

      “Who said?”

Martin found he really didn’t have an answer for that.

      “Well, I’m sure Mycroft passed along word that…”

      “Oh, he did.  Told his minions that you were coming and that they should stock the place with grub, check that everything was clean and ready to go.”

      Then, didn’t you lying here like a near-corpse raise any red flags?”

      “Nope.  Nor has it any of the other times they’ve stopped by to check on things.”

When Sam smiled, Martin felt a little like he was not in on the joke and Sam had been smiling a _lot_.

      “Does… does Mycroft know you’re here?”

      “Fuck no, what are you, a moron?

If feeling like one meant he _was_ one then Martin was the most moronic man in Britain.

      “Then how… how are you here?”

      “Oh god, do I have to explain everything?”

      “You haven’t explained _anything_!”

      “Fine.  Mycroft’s minions, which isn’t a bad name for a really shitty boy’s band, may think he knows I’m here, but baby bro is clueless.  And I intend it to stay that way, so don’t get any funny ideas.”

      “Look, laying aside the fact that I am about to put an end to this charade, why would Mycroft’s people think he knew you’re here?”

      “Maybe because he told them.”

      “YOU JUST SAID…”

      “However, just how ‘he’ is, might be subject to debate.”

This was worse than talking to Arthur when he’d had a cup of his own coffee.

      “Can you please, see how I’m asking nicely?, can you please just tell me what’s going on?”

      “You’re providing zero fun to my life right now, Martin.  In fact, you’re actually sucking all the existing fun out of the room.”

      “Fine, then call me Captain Hoover.  Now for the last time…”

      “Ok, ok… Captain Suck.  Let’s just say I had enough time at Mycroft’s house to get a handful of information to make a few, little indiscretions possible.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like tapping into a communications channel or two if I had to.  And put him on the mailing list of every sex toy company and Save the Fill-in-the-Blank charity in the world.”

Martin just gaped and then shook away the shock and replaced it with disbelief.

      “No.  There is no way that Mycroft would leave information lying around…”

      “True, he’s not a complete boob.  But his computer’s not as secure as he wants to think and… well, it only took a browse through three of his safes to pull together other juicy tidbits.”

      “ _Three_ safes?”

      “He’s got three more somewhere, but I didn’t bother to look for them since I was getting bored.  There was absolutely no mega-kinky porn hidden away for my viewing pleasure, which reflects badly on little brother in a very big way.”

      “Six safes!”

      “Mycroft always had a thing for the number six.  If Greg was a chick, I would be you a good $2.47 that they’d be paying six college tuitions in twenty years or so.”

      “How… you got into Mycroft’s safes?”

      “It’s a knack.  I also checked his financials, so I can at least rest easy he’s not living on credit or hoping Greg’s exotic dancing career is going to keep them in greenbacks.”

      “You… you’re one of those hacker types, aren’t you?”

      “Do you see any RedBull or Doritos anywhere around here?  And I _have_ lost my virginity, thank you very much.  Many times over.  I just know Mycroft and how pathetic security can be when you’re actually within the area the security’s designed to protect.  Look, all I did was send a little note to the drones out here that an American asset would be staying in this cozy cottage until further notice and they were to keep notes until they were asked to make a report. Nice and simple.  They know I’m here, Mycroft supposedly knows I’m here, everyone’s satisfied everyone else is in the loop.  Too bad I won’t be there when our Men in Black make their report on how things went and it gets passed along to Mycroft.  He’s going to blow like a fucking volcano.”

Ok, the how was somewhat taken care of.  Now the important bit.

      “It doesn’t matter why, Martin.  It is what it is, so just roll with it.  And I won’t be for much longer, anyway.  I just need a little while to pull some things together and get a couple of other things figured out before I can mosey along like a good little dogie.  It’s simple really, so don’t go fucking it all up with your stick-up-the-assedness.”

      “I do not have a stick up my arse!  And I’m not going to roll with it.  You have… you have no idea what your leaving did to Arthur!  He was devastated!  It took me days to get him calmed down and then… then he was scared of Mycroft and…”

Sam shot bolt upright, prompting a round of swearing that was extreme even by his usual standards and Martin actually felt a heavy surge of worry seeing color drain out of the older man’s face.

      “Sam, are you…”

      “Fine.  Donkey-fucking fine.  Tell me what happened between Arthur and Mycroft.”

      “Arthur was terrified that what happened to Greg and you was going to happen to him and it was more than he could handle.”

      “Back up the horse.  I know what happened to me – Mycroft was a major dick and totally off the chain, but what about Greg.  I’ve got some of the pieces for that, but I have feeling there are a few not on my puzzle board.”

      “I… I’m not sure it’s my place.”

      “I will carve out your innards and use your skin for a canoe if you don’t start talking.”

      “I’m not sure that would work, really, since you’d need to stretch it over something…”

      “I’m going to count to one.”

      “You and Carolyn have no sense of fair play.”

      “Bet she’d support my canoe idea.”

There really wasn’t any question about that.  So Martin told Sam as much of Mycroft’s verbal destruction of Lestrade as Arthur had told him and was more than slightly puzzled by the heavy wash of sadness that rose up in the doctor’s eyes.

      “Shit.  I really hoped that skipped a generation.  One more thing to thank the bitch for.  When she’d get her switched flipped, the only thing you could do was hide and hope she didn’t find you.”

Martin reviewed his memories and nothing came to mind that was remotely anything like that.  His aunt was not the warmest person, but mostly just ignored their goings on and that was the end of that.

      “I don’t remember anything like that.”

      “No?  Well, maybe she got things under control a little after I left.  Could be it was just me that was her biggest trigger.  That’s good to know though.  I admit I didn’t worry too much about that after I left because it was only me that caught it in the face, not Mycroft, but I did see her go off on your mother once and it wasn’t pretty.  If I remember right, it was because she dared to get pregnant and steal the bitch’s own pregnancy thunder.  God that woman was a blight.  Tough to hear that Mycroft inherited that streak, especially since it got turned on Greg.  That man is a blessing in more ways than one and does _not_ deserve our family’s normal shit let alone that black-snake venom running in Mycroft’s veins.  Yeah… I can see why Arthur was scared.  Poor kid wouldn’t survive a slaying like that.  Or Mycroft’s suicide after he realized what he’d done.  Crap… crappity crap with crap sauce on top.  They ok now?  I mean, if Arthur is headed off on his manhunt…”

      “It wasn’t easy.  It wasn’t easy at _all_ , but they’re better and Arthur feels comfortable again, which is all I really care about.”

      “Nothing wrong with that.  It’s your job to look out for Arthur, so what he feels should be your prime concern.  And I’ll say I’m sorry for my part in it.  The last thing I’d want to do is upset that kid because he is about the finest example of a human being that I’ve ever met.”

      “Well, you’re too late for that, but you _will_ tell him you’re sorry and you’re going to do it today.”

      “Nope.”

      “You’re little secret is out, Sam, so there’s no reason to…”

      “My secret is still secret, thank you very much and you’re not going to do anything to change that.”  

      “Nope.”

      “Copycat.  And I’m going to counter with Yep.  Since I’m smarter, faster, stronger and meaner, my Yep is going to kick your Nope’s ass and make it bleed.”

      “This makes no sense!”

      “Look, I’ve got this planned and you’re shiny heinie is not going to mess with it.  I’m sorry Arthur got that upset, I really am.  I figured he’d be a little put out, but I set him up with a nice adventure with Babylock to make up for it.  And don’t worry… they won’t wind up further than… well, it could be  Scotland or France.  Kinda depends on which clues they decide to run with.”

Martin wasn’t sure how he got up to answer the door with his jaw dragging along the floor, but he had the presence of mind, at least, to catch the wallet Sam tossed him so he could pay for their food.

      “Yum… pizza.  Or, hey… not bad, right?, pizza.  Sometimes I miss the old US of A.  Especially when I’m hungry.”

Martin dropped the pizza box on the table in front of the sofa and glared at Sam, as if daring him to take a piece, which the oldest Holmes did with great, albeit slightly slow and stiff, fanfare.

      “Eat.”

      “What did you mean about clues?”

      “Eat your food, Martin and don’t worry about what little schemes I might have cooked up.”

      “That’s exactly the sort of thing I _should_ be worried about!”

      “Nah, you forget who you’re dealing with.  I’m nothing if not about the fun.  They’ll be fine and Arthur will have a great time.”

      “You planned this.”

      “Well, not specifically.  I did _not_ plan on Mycroft blowing a gasket and tossing me out on my ass, but once he did… I don’t make an exit unless it’s a spectacular exit.”

Martin wondered if he bottled the amount of frustration he was experiencing, could use it as fuel for his van.

      “EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

      “Eat your food and I’ll consider it.  You need to fatten up.”

      “Do _not_ comment on my appearance!”

      “Ok, ok… just trying to help.  I’m only a world-renowned doctor who just might know what low body-weight does to long-term health.”

Martin gritted his teeth and crammed a slice of pizza into his mouth, chewing furiously and continuing to glare at the doctor until the other began laughing.

      “Not bad.  A little more practice and you’ll be as good as Sherlock.  Look, Martin… it’s simple.  No big hoopla.  I knew I was out the door and figured that Arthur would probably peck and peck until Sherlock got pulled out to the batter’s box to do his thing.  And, since Feeble Lestrade-Holmes still needs some looking after, John wouldn’t be going out with him.  That would leave an empty place that Arthur would leap in to fill.  Now, they can’t actually find me if I don’t want to be found, but there was no reason to spoil their fun.  So… I sprinkled some breadcrumbs around for them to play with.  A little random chat with a neighbor, a couple of questions at my local booze emporium, there _is_ a little video footage of me from a traffic cam that Mycroft will come across at some point, a hotel reservation under an assumed name that Sherlock will see through… other things.  A day’s work for them to run around like Spade and Archer, well, the Looney Tunes versions anyway.  So calm down, enjoy your pizza and be happy that your loverboy is going to have a fun and safe time.”

      “But they’re not actually going to find you.”

      “Oh hell no.  Not a chance of that.”

      “So what… they keep looking forever?”

      “Martin, this is the real world… Sherlock will realize that this is a puzzle he won’t crack and will turn his attention to more important things pretty damned fast.”

      “Granted, Sherlock might give up, but you apparently don’t know Arthur as well as you think.  Arthur won’t _ever_ want to give up.  He is absolutely desperate for you to come back and be part of this assortment of bodies he calls a family and for you and Mycroft to kiss and make up.”

      “Ok, that’s gross.  Have you looked at Mycroft lately?  Looks like he swallowed a rotten egg wrapped in rancid bacon.  Which reminds me, hand me my ‘za.”

      “Stop trying to change the subject.  Arthur will go to the ends of the Earth because he sees his new family as broken and in pain and that’s hurting _him_ , which I’m not going to stand for.”

      “Pardon me, but I’m not part of your cozy campfire circle.  Just ask little brother if you need a reminder.”

      “You sound like… a child!  Mycroft hurts your feelings and off you run?  I thought you were going to give Mycroft and Sherlock time to understand what they wanted?  Let _them_ make the decisions.  It seems like that was a lot of smoke when it came right down to it.  One large smoky lie…”

Even when obviously in pain, Sam’s snarl made Martin want to run and hide in the closet, grasping for anything he could use a weapon if the beast actually made it past the door.

      “It wasn’t a lie!  I was just before I realized…”

Sam bit back the rest of his sentence and grabbed another piece of pizza, which gave Martin a twinge of guilt seeing how much effort it took the older man.  However, it wasn’t great enough to get him to back down from the conversation.

      “Realized what?  Not that Mycroft wasn’t thrilled with you.  You had to know that already.”

Sam chewed on his food and washed it down with the last of his beer, motioning Martin to get him another bottle.  Said motioning turned to threatening to throw the bottle at Martin’s head when he refused, which quickly changed the pilot’s mind and sent him hustling in a rapid fashion, because Captain Martin Crieff does not run away from a threat.  Or peek into the danger zone before strolling in, in case he’d been too slow in bringing the offering and his head was still a viable target.  Finally, with a fresh beer in his hand, Sam seemed ready to answer.

      “It’s like this… Mycroft’s very much about one thing – facts.  Facts and what they mean.  He’s got my work history, he’s got John’s word on the subject, he’s got evidence from his own eyes… I’m a good doctor, Martin.  A great one, actually.  That’s one thing no one can argue with, at least not anyone who puts any faith in the facts.  And Mycroft accused me of being negligent.  Inept.  Dangerous even.  He knows that’s not true, he _knows_ it, Martin and still kicked me out on my ass.  Even with the facts laid out on a platter, he still ignored it all and painted me as some fucking incompetent.  With a wealth of data at his fingertips, he still chose to kick me in the nuts.  Irrefutable data, not even shit that’s subject to opinion.”

Sam stopped and took a long swig of his beer and this time, when he waved his fingers for more food, Martin didn’t hesitate, laying more pizza on the napkin that was doing double-duty as a plate.

      “With all that, he still just tossed my ass to the curb.  Now, how’s it going to go when he doesn’t have solid data?  When he’s having to work with nebulous and abstract things like feelings and emotions?  He can’t think a good thought about me even when it’s a no-brainer, he’ll never do it when it’s mired in things that he’ll never get a solid grip on.  Well, it’d take him a very long time, at least, and by then he’d probably do a cost-benefit analysis and I’d wind up on the losing side anyway.  I could sit there hovering at the edge of things for eternity and he’d never let me in and that’s the truth.  So why keep subjecting everyone to that tension?  To the awkwardness of throwing a party and _that_ guy shows up who makes the whole shebang uncomfortable for everyone?  Best to just go back to the way things were and everyone’s life slides right back to normal.  So shut up about it and finish your food.  Then you can take your stuff to the guest room and set up shop there.  Mycroft’s friggin television studio’s ready for you to call your honey-bunny, which I _will_ be listening in on for any instance of tattling.  You won’t be happy if you tattle, Martin.  Happiness requires survival and your chances of _that_ would be a nice round 0.0 percent.”

      “Your threats don’t scare me.  Anyway, I’m sure I can outrun you.”

Sam moved so fast it was hard for Martin to follow the motion, but he was now staring at a pepperoni that was stuck to his shirt, directly on top of his heart.

      “And you should see me with a _real_ weapon.”

      “YOU’RE INSANE!”

      “Only one report made that diagnosis and good luck finding it.”

      “Sam… just listen to me.  Right now, Mycroft may not be very upset, but other people are.  Well, maybe upset isn’t the right word, though it definitely is for Arthur.  Ok, and Sherlock, but…”

Sam narrowed his eyes and let his gaze bore into Martin’s soul.

      “What _about_ Sherlock?”

      “Well, John and Greg said he wasn’t doing well.  Sort of closed himself off and didn’t want to talk about anything, which I would think would be pleasant, actually, but it worried them.  John thinks… well, like if there was a murder mystery and you were reading it only to find out that the last quarter of the book was torn out.  You don’t have all the information so you can’t figure out who the murderer was.  Greg thinks the same, although he also believes that Sherlock might have thought about at least making _some_ attempt at getting to know you on a personal level and lost that chance.  And he did leap at Arthur’s suggestion, so…”

      “He would have done that anyway because it would have pissed off Mycroft.”

That was not something Martin could at all argue with.

      “You’re right.  I stand corrected.  But the rest of it still holds.”

The ginger pilot sat and watched the eldest Holmes reflect on what he’d said and took another look around the room.  It was a comfortable room, by his standards.  Just the right size for a decent telly and a big sofa.  The fire was a nice addition and there were at least two bedrooms, so it wouldn’t have been a hardship to stay here awhile… but, hold on a second…

      “Wait a minute!  How’d you know I’d be here!  You said very specifically you thought I was early and I rather think that requires an explanation!”

Sam looked confused for a second, then waved his hand as if dismissing the idea as irrelevant.  It was a wave Martin recognized well.

      “What?  Oh, follow the line, Martin.  Arthur goes on detective mission and your fiancé can’t be out of contact with you for an hour let alone for days or weeks.  Said fiancé detailed quite nicely the personal communications network Mycroft gave him, which would _not_ work in that shithole you call an apartment, which I _did_ check out by the way.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Arthur would flutter and fret until Mycroft did something to keep you two joined at the hip and since you would never agree to move in with your mother-in-law, it would have to be somewhere new.  During one of our chats, your loverboy mentioned how Mycroft had rented this place and I suspected it wasn’t a short-term rental, which was true, so brother dear kills two birds with one stone.  Arthur gets his lifeline and you get out of that attic closet for awhile.  Now, we just have to make sure Mycroft doesn’t have that house burned down while you’re out of it so you can’t go back and have to find somewhere new to live.  Not that that’s a bad idea.  I’ve lived in plenty of raggedy-ass places before, so I know how depressing it can be.  This place is nice, though… tidy, cozy… kitchen was decent, huh?  Arthur would love a kitchen like that of his very own…”

      “Stop!  Just stop right there.  No going further with that at all.  Arthur and I are not ready to…”

      “Of course you are and you know it.  Look at how you two were at Mycroft’s.  Already got the long-term couple vibe going on in a big way.  Yeah, all that was sort of like a vacation, but I know a thing or two about affection readiness and you’re at the top of the scale.  Ready for the big plunge, but until Greg’s got his ass in order, you’ll have to settle for the little plunge.  Cohabitate, live in sin… lots of sin, hopefully… just get started on the eternity together now and stop shilly-shallying.”

      “First… it’s none of your business and two… it’s _none_ of your business!”

      “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

      “I am not embarrassed! I’m… it’s simply that I don’t particularly enjoy discussing my personal business, especially with a…”

      “Idiot?  Dumb fuck?  Werewolf?”

      “A Holmes!”

Sam looked a little taken aback at Martin’s outburst, but rallied quickly.

      “Well, that’s a little family-ist of you.  And you’re part of that family, so there’s some self-loathing going on, too, apparently.  Do you need to see a therapist?”

      “I already see one, thank you very much and, believe me, _you’re_ going to make up most of my next session!”

      “Good you’re getting help for your crippling self-hatred and pussiness.”

      “How… how did we even get on this topic! No, don’t bother to answer.  It isn’t going to matter anyway because as soon as I tell Arthur…”

A projectile of green pepper landed directly where Martin was certain his carotid artery was located and there was a mushroom poised and ready to take out his jugular, too.

      “What is wrong with you!”

      “I’m old, tired, cut in two and your voice annoys me.  Ok, the last part’s not true, so I’ll substitute in that my brother can’t bring himself to trust me.  Want more?  I can pull together a list for you if you’ve got some paper.”

      “So there’s some self-pitying going on.  Do you need to see a therapist?”

      “HAH!  Good one.  And I’ve seen couple, just so you know.  They can be absolutely freaky in bed… shit that would make Freud blush.”

      “This isn’t going to end until you talk to Mycroft, you know.  And I’m not going to let Arthur suffer when he doesn’t need to.  That’s not fair to him and if there is one person who deserves you playing fairly, it’s Arthur Shappey.”

      “Then you’ll have to take his mind off trashy old me.  I can give you some tips, if you need them.  Find me that paper and I’ll even include drawings.”

      “First, nothing can take Arthur’s mind off something for very long and second, this is all so ridiculous you should want it stopped so you can salvage _some_ dignity!”

      “Oh, that hurt.  I’ve never felt such painful pain.  Really, that hurts worse than running out of booze while driving through a dry county.”

      “Don’t you take anything seriously?  Ever have one honest feeling?  This is just what I mean, the whole lot of you, worthless for anyone but yourselves.”

Martin got up and hoped he wasn’t being as much of a baby as his cousin by storming out of the room and into the kitchen to find another beer.  And he did _not_ pay attention to the fact that the kitchen would make Arthur absolutely giddy…  Returning back to the insufferable doctor, Martin wasn’t sure what to feel because every bit of the gleam in Sam’s eyes had bled away and now he looked… empty.

      “Sam…”

      “It’s not that we don’t feel, Martin.  That’s the wrong end of things.  Maybe we don’t embrace every little throwaway feeling that you get a hundred of a day, but real ones… what did you call it?  Honest feelings?  We feel those.  Every one.  And more deeply than you can imagine.  It’s getting hit with a few ugly ones that makes us close down so that even less of the little one’s get through, but don’t think it closes us down for good.   Mycroft’s not as cold as you think he is.  He’s learned to swallow his joy as well as his pain so it doesn’t cloud his judgment, but they’re still inside him.  Sherlock… I admit I don’t have a perfect picture of him yet, but I bet that’s pretty true for him, too.  You know that ‘book by its cover’ spiel?  Well, it’s true.  Should be our goddam family motto.”

That much Martin had to admit was true.  None of them was exactly who you thought they were, for good or bad, and that was the most infuriating thing of all.  You never really knew where you stood.  Never knew which line in the sand was the real one.  What was the truth among the lies.  How much of Mycroft’s ice was really ice… how much of Sam’s foolishness was really as silly as it appeared.

      “Yes, well… maybe that’s true.  But it doesn’t change things, does it?  This is still wrong and you can’t sit here hiding without being a bit of a coward.”

      “You just don’t let go, do you?”

      “Not when it involves Arthur’s happiness or well-being.”      

A tiny spark reignited in Sam’s expression and a ghost of a smile played on his lips.

      “Good for you.  You’re going to make a great husband and I’m not saying that lightly.  How about I make you a deal?  Let things lie for right now.  I’m not going anywhere at the moment, least not until this hole in my side heals and I get a few other things arranged, so let’s keep it status quo.  You root for your hubby there on this adventure we can talk about this some more when I’m not dripping through my shirt.  Which… shit, which is what’s happening now.”

Apparently that stain on Sam’s shirt wasn’t splattered pizza sauce, as Martin had told himself to believe.

      “Get my bag out of my bedroom, will you?  A little fresh gauze and a glue stick and I’ll have this fixed up good as new.”

The pilot seriously doubted that was true, but took off to retrieve the supplies and didn’t feel particularly proud of himself that he stopped to snoop in Sam’s room while he had the opportunity.  There were empty bottles in there, too, which didn’t make Martin very happy, but at least it was only a few.  More books on the bedside table and a fair amount of clothes in the closet.  No knick knacks, though, not that Martin knew if his cousin had owned any before he left London, but most people did, didn’t they?  What there was, though were photographs.  A small stack of photographs that sat near the books by the bed and Martin paused a moment to look through them.  A good number of them were of a pretty woman with hair nearly the color of his own and a little boy with the same fiery locks.  The hair might not give anything away, but the eyes... that blaze of intelligence that made the eyes almost their own living creature… the little boy was definitely a Holmes.  Only one of the pictures included Sam and Martin had to smile seeing the doctor with his family.  There was something… genuine… about the happiness on all of their faces, including his idiotic cousin.  That Sam looked a lot different than this Sam, and age wasn’t completely the reason.

Then there were the other photographs.  The ones of Sam and Mycroft, though two included a very young Sherlock.  Mycroft looked so… resentful.  Like taking a picture was ripping the life out of him and he hated everyone and everything because of it.  But Sam… Sherrinford… he looked so… well, he looked almost as doting as with his son.  Like the younger boy in the picture was the most wonderful thing in the world.  And Mycroft was having none of it.

Making sure to put away everything exactly where he found it, Martin carried the medical bag and a fresh shirt out to the waiting patient and ignored the ‘I know you were snooping’ smirk he received as he passed over the supplies and received the television remote in exchange.

      “Here, occupy your attention for a bit while I get this tended to.  You’re lucky Arthur’s got a doctor’s stomach, because when you start adopting a pack of kids, _someone_ is going to have deal with all their cuts, scrapes, breaks and bloody noses.”

      “And another thing that is completely none of your business.”

      “Everything’s my business.  I’m a busybody – that’s what we do.”

      “Just… you just get yourself tended to and stop trying to make trouble.”

      “Fine, you big baby.  Watch out, here I go.”

Martin turned away and flipped on the telly, so he didn’t have to see what had to be something ugly that the doctor was going to repair.  Arthur _was_ good for this sort of thing; he had proved that already and if… a _very_ large if… they added children to their lives, it would be nice to know that one of them would be prepared for all the aches and pains kids suffered growing up.  It certainly would have been nice to have someone like that around when _he_ was a child…

While Sam made rude and annoying noises, designed purely to irritate, Martin sat back and didn’t even try to stop his fingers running over the mobile in his pocket.  All he had to do was pick it up and call Arthur.  One little call and all of this would come to an end.  And Sam wasn’t able to flick lethal toppings at him at the moment, so that call wouldn’t cost him his life.  So why wasn’t he doing it?  Why wasn’t he just making that call and prompting Arthur to come running home, probably with Mycroft and Sherlock in his wake, to play family counselor for what would undoubtedly a very rocky Holmes reunion?  It made no sense, not a bit of sense, but he still wasn’t doing it.  Even _telling_ himself to phone was not doing a thing to make his fingers tap out the numbers.

Sneaking a small peek at his cousin, Martin snorted at the fact Sam was now singing a song about blood and pus that would make Arthur very proud, and turned his attention to the lines of pain and stress on the man’s face and the slight tremble in his hands as he applied a fresh bandage over his wound.  Which he really didn’t appreciate getting to see.  At all.  Especially when it was a lot uglier than the last time he’d seen it.  Looking at the figure in front of him, it was hard to reconcile the man he had met with the man in those photographs.  That man had, even though it was highly upsetting to even think the phrase, an inner glow that wasn’t there anymore.  There was something missing.  And those pictures with Mycroft… Mycroft looked so irritated.  Aggravated.  He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight and displeasure radiated off of him in nearly visible waves…

      “Sam, what’s the real reason you left?”

Martin wasn’t a full Holmes, but he couldn’t miss the pause in Sam’s actions that lasted longer than it should have if he was simply startled by the question.

      “Conspiracy nut, are we, Martin?”

      “No… but there’s more to it, isn’t there?  All of that about Mycroft not trusting you… it’s part of the story, but not all of it.  What’s the rest?”

      “There’s nothing more, Martin.”

Oh, but the doctor’s tone said that statement was certainly a lie.

      “If you want me to cooperate with you on your… fugitive status… then I think you owe me the truth.”

      “Do you, now?”

      “Yes, I do.”

Martin hoped the resolve he was trying to push into his voice was noticeable and was thankful when the doctor huffed loudly, slowly buttoned his new shirt and reclined back on the sofa.  The pilot had expected a truly piercing glare to meet him, but there wasn’t one.  Sam just looked sad and that actually stung worse than a Holmes-quality stare.

      “Maybe you’re right.  Arthur’s told me a little about you and Sherlock’s history and let me ask you this – did that make you happy?”

      “What, that Sherlock used me as a lab rat?  No, not at all.  Who _would_ like that?”

      “Now, after coming back into his life, what if he was the same person he was back then?  If you told him you wanted to try and rebuild some bridges and, after he agreed, found he was the same individual you knew years ago.  How would that have gone for you?  If he roped you into another of his little experiments and you needed John’s help to bounce back from it.”

How would that have gone for him?  It would have hurt.  Hurt badly.  To reach out one more time and be hurt again.  To be lied to again.  It would have… it wasn’t even something he could think about easily.

      “Yeah, I thought so.  I take full responsibility for leaving when Mycie was a kid, Martin.  I’ll happily own that and how he feels about me because of it.  But…”

Sam stopped and flailed around on the floor for his beer, draining it once it landed in his fingers.

      “Before Mycroft knew it was me, the real me, he absolutely despised me.  Didn’t want me in that house… it was only the rest of you that kept him from tossing my ass out a long time ago.  He didn’t like me, disapproved of everything I was… didn’t really trust me even then.  Exactly like when we were kids.”

Martin was caught off guard by that and leaned in to encourage the doctor to keep going.

      “Every day, I had to listen to the laundry list of things he hated about me.  How he disapproved of everything I said and did.  Everything I _was_.  How… how he wished I was gone.  He’d be so much happier if I wasn’t there… I heard that more times than I can count.  It was my fault Mummy was unhappy, he was humiliated to be seen with me, I was a fool, an idiot, a disgrace, repugnant… I could go on all day.  Because _he_ did.  He went on every day about how he hated me and, yeah, I know that’s kids, but this was Mycroft we’re talking about, not some random little snot-nosed brat.  And I tried so hard, Martin.  I loved him with everything in me and I tried to do everything I could to make him happy.  To give him a life that wasn’t completely dull and dreary.  Encouraged him with his art and his writing, tried to entertain him, help him find new interests… tried to show him that someone in the house loved him unconditionally and…”

Sam broke off and stared at the fire for a long moment before continuing.

      “It never made any difference.  He just wouldn’t show me a speck of love in return.  Couldn’t, maybe… I don’t know.  Every day I lived with his spite, disappointment and disapproval and, no matter what I did, not a bit of that changed.  If other things hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have stopped trying, though.  Wouldn’t have stopped loving him in the least, but… life was what it was.  Then, here I go and meet the man for the first time and immediately it’s decades back and we’re exactly in the same spot.  I thought… I thought that maybe, once he knew the truth that something would change.  He’d be angry, furious, hurt… well, I don’t know about hurt… but maybe there’d be something in him that was happy to see me.  Something that said I was wrong all those years ago and that he _had_ cared.  That he was glad we’d have another chance.  But he wasn’t, was he?  Not even the tiniest bit.  Yeah, I know it’s petty and I own a lot of the blame, but that cut, Martin.  That cut me so badly I can’t even find the words.  And I didn’t want to sit around trying like I did for so long only to keep hurting and feeling it grow more painful every day.  I’ve got enough pain already without that on top of it and I’m just sick of hurting all the time.  Mycroft doesn’t care and he never will.  He’s never going to be willing to try and make me part of his family, because he truly cannot stand my presence.  That’s the long and short of it and, yes I cut out after his tantrum but… but there was nothing left in me, Martin.  No hope, no fight… no… nothing.”

Sam struggled off the sofa and slowly shambled towards the kitchen, leaving Martin staring at the empty space on the sofa.  That wasn’t the Mycroft he remembered, but… that was after Sam left.  After Mycroft had to take up the job of taking care of Sherlock and be the big brother for a scornful and disapproving little sibling of his own.  When the older man shuffled back into the room, he handed Martin a fresh beer and sat heavily back onto the sofa.

      “So, there you have it.  Listen to the old man whine.  Not a pretty thing, right?  No one should have to listen to that load of claptrap.  You said it right, too… self-pitying.  Maybe Mycroft’s right.  Maybe I _was_ a waste of skin then and an even saggier one now.  But I just don’t have the energy to… I’m not young anymore, Martin.  I don’t have the juice to get kicked in the head again.”

Sam sat quietly and drank his beer, interspersing sips with large bites of food, as if the confession _had_ truly taken the last of his energy.  For Martin’s part, he sat wrestling with the very unwanted feeling of sympathy for his cousin.  He had tried so hard with Sherlock.  Wanted so badly for Sherlock to simply be kind to him and it never happened.  The best he could claim during his youth was that Sherlock wasn’t behaving cruelly that particular day.  And it had marked him.  Damaged him, far more than physically.  To know that someone he actually wanted to have a strong and positive relationship with never considered him worthy.  At least Sherlock was trying now, though.  He was making an effort, even if it was only to treat him the same way he treated the others.  There was hope and there _was_ some progress… but Sam was right.  Mycroft hadn’t given him one single inch even when he was a stranger doing nothing but working like a dog to help Greg.  He just didn’t _like_ the man on the sofa and finding out who he actually was only served as fuel on the fire.

      “I… I can understand that, at least.  The more you get kicked, the harder it is to withstand the next one.  I mean you carry on, because you have to and maybe, in some ways, you do grow stronger because of it, but… it hurts.”

      “Yeah, that it does.  So that’s all I’ve got, kid.  Can I count on you to just let me deal with things the way I need to?”

      “No.”

      “WHAT!”

      “It’s still stupid and too many people are going to suffer besides you.  Besides, Sherlock wasn’t a part of any of that and he deserves a chance to have a say.  Maybe Mycroft doesn’t want to be in the same room as you, but that doesn’t mean Sherlock might not want that.  Or Arthur or John or Greg.  They deserve a say before you run away for good.  What I will do is give you some time.  Time to let that… thing… heal a little and for you to start to get a bit stronger.  That should also give Mycroft time to think and talk to people like John and Greg to help get his head sorted about things.  We can work out the details of how you resurrect later, but…”

This was the most painful part.

      “…but Arthur does adore being Sherlock’s part-time assistant and this will count as a major case for him.  You’re right that I’d be a complete villain taking this away from him so I’m not going to as long as I’m satisfied that they’re not going to be in any danger.”

      “If there’s one thing I figured out while at Mycroft’s personal palace it’s that Sherlock would cut off his arm rather than put Arthur in harm’s way.  Baby brother has a good friend in Arthur and actually wants to reciprocate, at least, as best he can.  I don’t think you have any worries on that score.  So… time.”

      “Time.”

      “How much?”

      “That’s for me to decide.”

      “Bossy little shit, aren’t you.”

      “I am the captain of an aircraft and I must, as such, adopt a commanding demeanor.”

And, another of Martin’s non-admissions would be that it made him happy that the exiled Sherrinford Holmes began to laugh.

      “Very well, Captain Crieff-Shappey.  I accept your terms, but we _will_ open this discussion again if something changes.”   

      “I am nothing if not accommodating.”

      “Shut up and eat.”

      “Yes, sir.” 


	5. Chapter 5

      “You ok, love?”

Mycroft looked over to his partner and gave him a weary smile.  After depositing Arthur in the entertainment room so that he could enjoy a private conversation with Martin, and shooing Sherlock and John to a room of their own so that he could have some degree of quiet, Mycroft stopped in his study to fill a large glass with a foolish amount of scotch and, at the last minute, poured a very small amount in a second glass for Lestrade.  That second glass now made an appearance and the first laugh Mycroft had given in an age slipped his lips seeing his lover’s face, which appeared much, Mycroft was certain, as when Lestrade found his presents on Christmas morning as a child.

      “You know, I really don’t care about you anymore.  Give me my alcohol!”

      “How fickle you are, Gregory.  I feel most ill-used.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you later.  I don’t plan on sleeping alone tonight, you know.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, you are freshly stressed from your little trip across the house.  I shall not permit any untoward shenanigans until I feel you are properly recovered.”

      “Did you just say shenanigans?”

      “That I did.  Are you impressed?”

      “I am, actually.  But I’m still getting you into bed tonight.”

      “Incorrigible.  Simply incorrigible.  Perhaps a bit of scotch will calm your fire.”

Mycroft walked over and sat on Lestrade’s bed, handing over the glass and marveling at the shine in Lestrade’s eyes after he took his first sip.

      “Oh god… do you know how long it’s been since I had any of this?  My favorite… it’s been murder not getting a taste of our scotch now and then.”

How the word ‘our’ made Mycroft’s heart flip.  Three letters, yet they contained such a great meaning.

      “And I, also, have not indulged since last we shared a taste.  I had hoped to keep your body pristine of such intensity of enjoyable pollutants, but I find I desire too greatly company while I imbibe and, therefore, inhibit to your astounding progress.  Apparently, Sherrinford’s influence on this home lingers, even though his body is absent.”

Lestrade ran his hand up and down Mycroft’s thigh and smiled sympathetically.

      “That’s the way with family, Mycroft.  Hang around like ghosts, even when they’re not staring you in the face.  It’s a good thing, though… helps you feel part of something even if you’re alone for awhile.”

That was not something Mycroft could argue.  Sherlock had always been with him, no matter how far apart they were on the map and now… how quickly the number of ghosts had grown and he could not muster regret for it.  Sherrinford, however… his ghost was blacker and not nearly as benevolent as the others that haunted his halls.

      “And I think I’m back to ‘you ok, love?’  What’s going on in that head of yours?”

      “In truth, I cannot easily express the maelstrom currently attempting to find some semblance of order in my mind.  It is quite strange that the most complex and labyrinthine of political problems seem simple compared to areas of personal concern.”

      “That’s fine, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.  Save it up for when our crack detective team tracks down your brother and drags him back for little chat.”

      “Dragging Sherrinford in any manner is not a task I would wish on anyone.  In truth, if Arthur were not involved, I would despair of the venture finding any measure of success.”

      “That’s our Arthur, his own brand of superhero and god love him for it.”

‘Our’ again and it was just as blessed as it was a moment before.  Actually, Mycroft, realized, it was more so because it spoke to his very deep and very persistent want to oversee a family with this man.  To _have_ a family with his Gregory.  Already it was a wondrous thing, despite the difficulties, and to watch it settle into patterns, establish traditions, become a whole made from unique and complementary parts… it was absolutely exhilarating.  Something he had dreamt of for so very long in the most secret parts of his heart and now it was coming true.  And his very beloved partner seemed as happy with the situation as was he.

      “It does amaze me how someone so utterly devoid of conceit and ego can be such a powerful force for change.”

      “It’s true… and if there’s anyone who can help you and Sam work out some form of truce, it’d be him.  With Sherlock throwing in, too.  I think he’s hopeful for something with his new brother, even if he’s not sure what that something is.  As much as Sherlock gives you the cold shoulder, he knows you’re there, like a hum in the background you only notice when it stops.  Another hum in his background might appeal to him, not that I can picture Sam being a hum.  He’s more like cymbals crashing while a duck plays a kazoo, but you get the picture.”

As apt a description of his brother as had ever been given.  Actually… Sherrinford _had_ a kazoo that he pilfered from a novelty shop they had visited once.

        Very appropriate and I do not know whether you are right or wrong in your assessment.  Sherlock talks to me of nothing, so I doubt he will choose to discuss the matter with me.  I shall have to rely on your and John’s descriptions for my evidence.”

      “Don’t worry, Mycroft.  If Sherlock wants to talk about this, there’ll be ears happy to hear him and we will pass on what we can to you.”

      “What you can?”

      “If Sherlock says he want’s something to be just between me and him, I’m not going to repeat it to _anyone_.  That’s the quickest way to lose a person’s trust and I’m not going to disrespect him that way, in any case.”

      “Ah, yes, you are wise.   I have had so little meaningful communication with my brother in past years that I have quite forgotten the intricacies of the act.”

      “And we’re going to work on that, too.”

      “Do not expend unnecessary energy on such a task, Gregory.  Sherlock and I have a predictable pattern that we both understand and obey.  It is not, perhaps, what one might term ‘healthy,’ but there is value in familiarity and routine.”

      “Bollocks.  I’m not saying you’re going to be best friends, but I think we can move you a little further along the cordial scale.  I’m not going to be sitting at Martin and Arthur’s wedding with you two glaring at each other or an insult war drowning out the vows.”

      “I ensure you that neither of us would take steps to disrupt such a blessed event.”

      “Take steps, no.  Just happens, yes.  I know you, Mycroft Holmes and your little brother, too.”

      “Well… perhaps you have a point.”

      “And not the one on top of my head, right?”

      “Correct.”

      “That’s a win for me and another sip of scotch to celebrate.”

Mycroft chuckled and shook his head, watching his lover bask in his triumph.  And this was why he loved his Gregory so fiercely.  It was only with this man that he could share time in this manner.  Comfortable, relaxed time that drilled a peace into his bones that soothed him far more than any amount of fine spirits.

      “I hope it is a small sip, for I shall not refill your glass regardless of the fervency of your pleading.”

      “Fine, Mum.  Actually, I probably won’t be able to handle much more than this right now.  First priority after getting a little more wind in my sails is getting my alcohol tolerance back.”

      “It is always good to have goals.”

      “That it is.”

      “So let’s here one.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Let’s hear a goal.  And not something like ‘world peace’ because you’d be bored to tears if that happened so I’d know it wasn’t a real goal and you were just humoring me.”

What a frightening, yet highly intriguing request.  A goal… he was very good at scripting goals and the plan to achieve them.  He had done so for winning back his Gregory, had he not?  Of course, that initiative fell to ruin because of his own appalling behaviors and decisions and it was only due to his partner’s forgiving nature and bottomless heart that he was afforded another chance, but that was an anomaly.  A goal… one that was honest and desired…

      “I would like to have a holiday celebration with the members of our diverse family, so to speak, under a single roof.  Preferably _this_ roof.”

      “Now that’s a great goal!  I like it!  Good to have some Christmas cheer with the ones you love around you.  I’ll help you with that one if you want it, too.  And… I’ll help you figure out if you want that so to speak family to include your big brother or not.  It’s alright with me either way, don’t think it’s not, but, however I can, I’ll help you to think through things so you can decide for yourself what you ultimately want with or from Sam.  That sound good to you?”

The thought of Sherrinford intruding on their Christmas was… he had no idea how to feel about that.  If he was transparently honest, time with Sherrinford had been the best part of his Christmas when he was a child, which was not saying a great deal, however, owing to the rather somber celebration his parents favored.  But it did say _something_.  The rare time he experienced the clichéd Christmas cheer was due to Sherrinford’s efforts, garish and loud though they might be.  He had tried to bring some of that to Sherlock when he was young, but, as always, his brother would rather chew glass than accept any kindness from him.  It was near torture for Sherlock, or so he would have you believe, to acknowledge, let alone appreciate his attempts to give him something of an enjoyable Christmas.  Or birthday…

      “It does.  I will greatly treasure your assistance to understand my own mind on the issue.  And with decorating our home.  It is not something I have done in… well, I shall not follow that train of thought any longer.  Suffice it say, this shall be a very exciting thing for me to do and all the more fulfilling because you shall share it with me.”

      “You don’t want your hands all sappy from wrestling the tree, do you?”

      “That may have factored somewhat into my calculations.”

      “You’re lucky I love the smell of Christmas.”

      “I am lucky that you love _me_ and shall accept my portion evergreen oils, in addition to yours.”

      “Ok, I agree with that.  And I’ll put that on my scorecard and award myself another sip of bliss.”

Mycroft watched his lover grin and take a sip, complete with many exaggerated sights and sounds of delight and it struck him yet again that ‘luck’ was the proper word for what had befallen him.  He did not deserve this man, but he was blessed with him nonetheless and one did not snub one’s nose at the Fates.  A tree… A tree and ornaments.  He still had, locked away for years, a box or ornaments from his childhood.  Some were family heirlooms, some were bought new and stuck him as being especially lovely.  Others… others were made by Sherrinford and, at Sherrinford’s urging, himself.  Hideous things mostly, but he never was able to bring himself to toss them away.  There were even a very few made by Sherlock, after much browbeating and bribery, that had given their rooms an extra degree of holiday color once Sherrinford had left them to celebrate alone.  Deeply hidden were also recordings of some of Sherlock’s very early renditions of Christmas carols on his violin, first captured on tape, then preserved digitally, that he unearthed once a year and enjoyed as he indulged in an, also once yearly, bout of sentiment.  Now… he could think of quite a few individuals that would enjoy listening to those performances.

      “You are quite the victor tonight, my dear.  I quake at the thought of how poorly I shall fare in our domestic contests when you are regained of your strength.”

      “It’s not strength, it’s cunning.  And charm.  Good looks help, too.”

      “Then I resign myself to a life of defeat for those are attributes that you possess in abundance.”

      “And another sip.   You have one too, since you actually have me beat on those three.  My Mycroft is the best looking, most charming, cunningest man on the planet.  Though I’m not sure the last one is a real word, but that’s what’s great about scotch – you just don’t care!”

There was certainly a little alcohol-inspired sparkle to the giggle that danced through the room and, despite his near-obsessive concern for his lover’s health, Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to regret giving Lestrade his drink.  And, no… the hypocrisy of his action was not at all lost on him.  Sherrinford said it was good for Gregory to have small treats… to be happy.  Well, hypocritical or not, it was now part of his methodology for facilitating his love’s recovery.  If he had the chance, he would do the honorable thing and make his apologies to his brother for this particular issue.  And if he didn’t have the chance, well then… such was the roll of the dice.

      “I accept your kind words gladly, spurred by libations or not.”

      “Good.  Because I mean them.  All of them.  I probably don’t tell you enough, but I do mean all of that.  I always have.”

      “You are very generous with your words of affection, Gregory.  It is to my shame that I do not uphold your fine example.  I know that I have not your instinct, your gift, for making your feelings known and I despair that you shall never know the depth of my devotion to you for I cannot articulate it in any meaningful manner.”

Lestrade ran his hand again across Mycroft’s leg, then motioned him to lean over so he could give his partner a kiss, which Mycroft gladly accepted.

      “You do a good job, Mycroft, don’t doubt that.  And if you start being one of those neglectful gits, I’ll give you a knock on the head to straighten you out.”

      “Ah… my relief knows no bounds that you are properly policing my behaviors.  And I shall reward that vigilance as bountifully as I am able.”

      “More scotch?”

      “I think not.  However, I might find it acceptable to take the space next to you to sleep tonight.”

      “Yes!  That’s the best reward I could ask for.  Well, it’d be better if it wasn’t in a hospital bed.  Think John’ll let me move to something more comfortable soon?”

      “I shall discuss it with him, however, I do not want you to endure another painful encounter such as with this last event with the chair.”

      “I bet your bed is a lot softer than that chair, too.”

      “ _Our_ bed is quite comfortable, yes, and I would not have your first experience in it to be a tortuous one.”

      “Then, I’ll just view it as another incentive to get this carcass of mine healed up.  Oh, and… look, I hope it’s ok, but some of the team want to stop by and say hello tomorrow and I said it was fine.  It is, right?  You said you didn’t mind, but…”

      “Gregory, this is your home now and your wishes and decisions are equal to my own.  By all means have your colleagues in for a visit.  John has agreed this will not overtax you, correct?”

      “As long as we don’t decide to go to a club or something, John’s fine.  And he’s only not fine with the club because he’s a horrible dancer and it would embarrass him in front of people he has to work with when he’s chasing after Sherlock.”

And, of course, Mycroft would be present to keep a watchful eye on this first social engagement his lover would navigate in his weakened state.  There was no question his Gregory would put on a very grand show of strength, regardless of his true condition and could easily push his body too far in the process.

      “Brilliant!  Oh god, now Arthur’s got me saying it.  Thanks, love.  It’ll be good to catch up with what I’ve missed.  It… apparently, a few people were actually upset to hear I’d been shot.  And that no one told them.  That’s good to know, even though it’s probably arrogant of me somehow.”

      “No, my dear.  It is not arrogance.  It is justifiable pleasure at knowing one is valued by others.”

Mycroft smiled at his partner and wished a little wish that the day would come quickly when he was seeing this man off in the morning for his first day back to work.  Checking that he had his coat and his wallet… sending him back to the world with a kiss and the promise of a similar greeting upon his return.  Of course, he also had a secret and ugly wish that his Gregory never made that level of recovery so he never had to worry about another gun being pointed or a knife being wielded…

      “I’ll take you word for it, because you’re usually right.  Now, since I’m out of sips, I don’t suppose I can borrow one of yours.”

      “You may pack away your lustrous smile, my dear, for it shall not sway me.”      

      “How about I unpack something else and let you look at that instead?  All I’m hoping for is a tiny swaying and I’ll trade something that’s not so tiny, if I do say so myself.”

The very first time Mycroft had truly laid eyes on his partner, his body had reacted in a very telling way and, with the passage of time, that reaction simply strengthened.

      “You are an incredibly seductive man, Gregory and it is taking the full force of will to resist your wiles.”

      “And my wiles are starting to wake up, too.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Let’s just say that since John pulled down the meds, I may have noticed a little extra feeling in certain places.  Especially when I’m thinking about a tall, gorgeous man who’s going to be sleeping right here next to me tonight.”

Now that was a _very_ promising turn of events from Mycroft’s perspective.

      “Not that much to brag about yet, but give me a little while and we’ll have a very nice night with that door locked to keep the kids out.”

There was a rush of something hot and tight in Mycroft’s chest at Lestrade’s words.  Partially, it was that he had still harbored a fear that once his beloved’s health improved, he would leave.  Partially, it was that he had harbored another fear that he could not sustain this glorious man’s physical interest.  Mostly it was an immeasurable relief that neither of those things were true.

      “I await that night most eagerly and I shall do my best to make it one you shall not regret.”

      “I don’t regret my time with you, Mycroft.  Even when you’re being tight with the scotch.”

      “Goals, Gregory.”

      “Can I sniff it, at least?”

      “Simply incorrigible.”

      “And you love it.”

      ‘I certainly do.”

__________

      “Mr. Sherlock!”

Arthur bounded into the study where Sherlock was sitting, working on Mycroft’s computer.

      “I take it you have completed your video-based love letter to Martin.”

      “Skip and I had a brilliant chat!  And he’s in a brilliant little house that has a fireplace and he says there’s a tree that would be brilliant for bird feeders… oh, I’m so happy for him.  At least I know he’ll be warm and it won’t be as noisy as it is at his flat.  He says it doesn’t bother him anymore, but I think it does, actually.  You see his jaw do that clenchy thing when the music starts up and, when I try to get him to dance, he doesn’t want to and who wouldn’t want to dance if they were enjoying the music?”

      “Me.”

      “Oh… well, that makes sense since you and Skip are related.  Mycroft likes to dance though, I’ve seen him dance with Greg.  And I bet that Doctor Sam LOVES to dance!  Maybe it’s because you and Skip are little compared to Mycroft and Doctor Sam and you just have to grow up a bit more and you’ll want to dance, too!”

Sherlock spent a few moments renaming all the sites in Mycroft’s bookmark folder to very rude and very embarrassing alternatives and shut down the machine with an evil spell thrown in for good measure when he was done.

      “Is there anything you actually wanted to discuss with me, Arthur?”

      “Oh!  Right!  Yes!  Oh, now I’ve forgotten it.  Wait!  No, I still can’t remember.”

      “Might it have something to do with the case?”

      “Case!  Yes!  No.  No, that wasn’t it.  Wait!  Yes!  It was!  Ok, here goes… what do we do first?”

      “What would be _your_ first course of action?”

      “Me?  Well… I suppose I would go back to Doctor Sam’s flat and look for clues, though there wasn’t really anything there but my letter.  I didn’t go through every little cupboard or look under the floorboards, though, so I could have missed something.  And maybe he talked to his neighbors or something or they asked him where all his furniture was going.  We could stop on the way and buy some nice biscuits and cups of tea and we could offer them tea and have a little chat and find out what they know.”

      “Besides the social pleasantries, that is my thinking, as well.  We shall begin with that tomorrow.  Do you have your notebook?”

      “Yes!  And I have a spare, too, because I wrote down a few recipes and drew some pictures that took up some space in my first one, but I’ve got plenty of space now since I’ve got the two notebooks.”  

“Excellent.  Preparation is crucial during an investigation.  For my part, I have been reviewing the information Mycroft gathered, pathetic as it is, and there are a few avenues I want to pursue.  The monies he withdrew from the bank do not equate with the projected holdings of a man his age and the overbloated American salaries for physicians, for example.”

      “Maybe he has his own bank. I have one in my room.  It’s a big teddy bear and there’s a slot in the back where you put the money.”

      “I believe the volume of currency in question would exceed the capacity of your bank.”

      “Oh… that’s a lot of money, then, because it’s a really big bank.  But money doesn’t have to be real, though, does it?  I mean, not real  money that you can look at the pictures on and fold into little frogs, but money that only exists on your cards and on those letters Mum gets from the bank that she tears into little pieces and flushes down the toilet.”  

      “Yes, that is very likely the money I am currently referencing.”

      “And that money is in the big banks that you have to have accounts for.  Now, I may be wrong, but I would expect that if Doctor Sam has money you haven’t found it probably isn’t in an account labeled Doctor Sam.”

      “Well deduced.”

      “Yes!  You see, I know that because, when I was little, I asked Dad once who was Morton Chappey and why he was getting his mail and Dad sent me to my room for the rest of the day.”

      “I think it is entirely within the scope of Sherrinford’s personality to have accounts under assumed names, however, unless we know those names, we are effectively in the same place as we were before.”

      “Hmmm… yes.  That is true.  Would anyone know his other names?”

      “I suspect he would keep that information confidential.”

      “I suppose.  It’s not much use to have a secret identity if you go around telling people about it.”

      “Arthur, my boy, is Sherlock trying to persuade you that he is some form of masked crimefighter?  Please do not fuel his ego-fueled delusions; John and I already have our hands full with his self-misperceptions without third-party reinforcement.”

      “Mycroft!  How’s Greg?  He was smiling today a lot and that’s good, right?”

      “Gregory is feeling quite well and I believe he grows appreciably stronger each day.  In fact, on our next pleasant afternoon, I shall stroll him about in his chariot to enjoy the fresh air.”

      “Oh, he’ll like that because Greg very much seems the type to like being outdoors and doing outdoors things like sports and riding horses and building houses for dogs.”

      “Yes, that does sound like Lestrade.  Especially the dogs part.  Mycroft, why don’t you get a dog so Lestrade can build it a house?”

Mycroft shot his brother a phenomenally annoyed glare because, as expected, Arthur nearly choked with glee and began to dance.

      “Brilliant!  You could get a lovely little doggie and Greg could make it a cozy house and you both could go shopping to buy outfits for it and take it for walks and have it curl up with you on the sofa when you watch movies and give it baths and it would be completely brilliant!  What kind of dog are you going to get?”

      “I’m afraid that decision will have to be tabled for the moment as Gregory’s health does not currently make the ownership of a dog a wise decision.  I am certain he would very much want to perform all of the stereotypical pet owner duties such as walks and… ball throwing… and would feel quite disappointed with himself that he could not perform those duties successfully.”

      “Oh, that does make sense.  Greg takes doing things properly very seriously.  But when he’s well, I can help you choose the right doggie because I’m somewhat of an expert on the subject.”

      “I look forward to that discussion.  Now, what has Sherlock been perpetrating on my computer.  I hope you haven’t been a naughty boy and caused an incident I shall have to spend time better spent with the Detective Inspector recalling fighter jets or repairing the world’s stock markets.”

      “Mr. Sherlock was looking through information about Doctor Sam.  Then we talked about my teddy bank and got stuck on Doctor Sam’s secret identities like Morton Chappey, but not Morton Chappey because that’s Dad.”

Mycroft implemented Arthur translation protocols and grabbed the thread of his meaning.

      “You are likely correct in that Sherrinford has assets under various false names.  Likely the names of the identities which mirrored his own, given by our parents.”

Seeing Sherlock’s confusion, Mycroft remembered that his brother had not been party to that conversation.  A few minutes brought his brother, and Arthur, up to speed on how Sherrinford was able to relocate to America with such ease.

      “That means you and Mr. Sherlock have other names, too!  Brilliant!  I’ve only got Arthur.  And half-wit.  And idiot boy.  And a few others Mum uses when she’s in one of her moods.”

      “It _is_ an interesting strategy.  We should begin working through those aliases immediately.”

      “I would already have done that, Sherlock, if I had any idea what they might be.  I suspect they were considered unnecessary after we reached a certain age and I have not been able to trace any evidence of their existence.  I suspect they were destroyed for security purposes.”     

      “But Sherrinford’s remained intact.”

      “In that, Father may have played a role.  He seems to have supported, at least to a degree, Sherrinford’s decision.”

      “Would Father have left his other identities untouched?”

      “He might.  Given the uncertainty of Sherrinford’s situation, he might have left those in place in case they were needed.”      

      “And Sherrinford would certainly have maintained them if that were possible.”

      “Very probable.”

      “Yet, we have no clue as to the names.”  

      “None.”

      “But you don’t need any, really.”

Both Holmes brothers turned towards Arthur, who suddenly felt a little uncomfortable at the scrutiny.

      “Arthur, would you be so kind as to explain that statement?”

      “Sure, Mycroft.  I like explaining things.  Well, it seems to me that if Doctor Sam had other names and all those names had lives that were actually Doctor Sam’s lives then it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t know the name, because you would know the lives and could look them up instead.  Right?”

Arthur looked between Sherlock and Mycroft, hoping he’d not said something silly and nearly jumped when Sherlock slammed his hand down on Mycroft’s desk with a loud bang.

      “Arthur, that is an extremely intriguing idea.  I shall have that angle of inquiry pursued immediately.”

      “Can I say hurray?”

      “Absolutely.  It is highly warranted.”

      “Hurray!”

      “Splendid.  And once Sherlock recovers from his tantrum, I am certain he will have other lines of investigation to follow that will assist in the cause.”

      “Oh!  We do!  We have plan and everything and we’ll start tomorrow.  I’m already planning an On The Case special breakfast so we have yummy start to the day.”

      “Isn’t that wonderful, Sherlock?  Your day shall have a yummy start.”

      “Despite you cynical tone, I am quite content with the matter.  John will be pleased as it will free him from cooking duties.  And analysis of Arthur’s culinary achievements are an effective method of preparing my mind for a day’s investigative efforts.”

      “I heartily concur.  It was through reflection upon Arthur’s lovely Prune and Pepper Porridge that my mind was nimbled sufficiently to handily manage a three-nation hostage negotiation to a very satisfactory conclusion.

      “There’s four types of pepper in it, too, that’s why it’s good for waking you right up in the morning.”

      “As I found much to my great surprise and delight.  Now, if I am not required for any form of further planning, I shall return to Gregory.  I was looking… ah, there it is.”

Mycroft walked over to the small table by the sofa and picked up his sketchpad.

      “My services have been requested and I would not dream of disappointing.”

      “Greg really likes it when you draw.”

      “He does seem to appreciate my scratches and scribblings and I am slave to his desires.”

      “Please do not discuss your bedroom behaviors in polite company, Mycroft.  It is difficult enough to suffer your presence without the added repulsion of your sordid sexual leanings.”

      “Dear Sherlock, whatever would I do without your petulance and insults?  Surely I would think myself deceased and gone to a better place.”

      “Which, for you, means a cake factory.”

      “I want to go to the cake factory!  Oh, can we, Mr. Sherlock?  Getting to watch cakes being made would be brilliant, especially if they give samples like they do at that posh chocolate shop.  When are we going to the cake factory?”

      “I shall leave you two to work out the details.  Goodnight, Arthur.  Do make sure Sherlock gets to bed at a reasonable hour so he is at his best tomorrow.”

      “I will!  That’s a good idea, because sometimes Mr. Sherlock doesn’t sleep very much and gets a bit cranky.  I’ll make sure he’s snug in his bed and he can even wear my new pyjamas if he wants to.  They have panda bears all over them, Mr. Sherlock, so you know you’ll have a cuddly sleep if you wear them.”

With Sherlock attempting to use the power of his glare to set his suit on fire, Mycroft gave a little wave and left the two detectives alone.  He had far more important matters to take care of; such as the pre-1960’s robot his lover wanted added to his art wall.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft lay next to his partner and simply watched him breathe for a very long time.  It was becoming something of an obsession, consciously checking that Lestrade was breathing while he was sleeping.  Too often in his own sleep was a dream in which his lover was _not_ breathing.  Was not breathing or moving and was lying cold in a pool of blood that was slowly seeping into the earth.  Now, however, he was breathing and he was warm and he moved in a hundred tiny ways that screamed he was filled with life.  Perhaps the nightmare would begin to fade when they were in the bed they would share permanently, but Mycroft had a suspicion it would always linger and he was not entirely displeased by the fact.  It would be a penance and he found no fault with that.  It would also be a reminder and, again, there was nothing to fault there, either.  He had come as close as one could to committing the worst possible atrocity on this man and that was something for which payment should be demanded for the remainder of his own life, even if that demand came only from himself.

      “You’re thinking.  I can feel the magnetic fields or whatever in the room swirling around.”

A slow and careful curl around his partner served for Mycroft’s response and Lestrade didn’t push for more.  He wasn’t blind to the fact that both Sherlock and Mycroft had been taking massive blows to their weakest fronts and sometimes you just had to let yourself quietly think your way through things without someone’s mouth distracting you.  He just wished he could do more to help.  Right now, even rolling slightly to better hold his lover wasn’t going to happen and that made him feel more than a little useless.  Not entirely, because he could do more than he could before, but it still wasn’t enough.  This was the worst part of it all – knowing what he _wanted_ to do, what he _should_ do and not being able to do any of it.

      “And now _you_ are thinking, my dear.  I can feel the cosmic balance shifting slightly to accommodate the greater pull from the direction of this bed.”

      “Me?  Nope.  I do my best to avoid thinking at all costs.  Gets you into all sorts of trouble.”

      “Hmmm… in that you might be correct, however, I believe you to be someone who welcomes a bit of trouble in their lives.”

Mycroft ran a hand across Lestrade’s stomach and smiled when his partner made a very satisfied, almost purring sound.

      “Ok, you caught me.  And as soon as I can do a little more, I’ll show you just how much trouble I like.”

      “A lesson I am very eager to learn.  And it shall not be as long until that lesson is given as you might fear, my dear.  Already you are so far improved from whence you began.  In truth, I was not at all certain you would see this degree of recovery until much later in time.”

      “I know.  I’m been researching this sort of thing and I _am_ doing well.  It’s just… it’s still so fucking slow!  And I’m sick of being in bed, sick of not wearing real clothes, sick of wanting a real shower…”

      “All of which you will have in due course.”    

      “Yeah, but it’s not now.  And still won’t be for awhile.  I’m not going to lie to you, love… if you asked me I’d say I want do Sam back here and it’s partially because he’ll get me to that point faster.  John’s amazing, he really is, but he still has a hard time pushing me.  Every time I wince, I see him flinch and I just know that he’s rearranging in his mind what he was planning so it’s not so rough on me.  Sam sees me wince and, to him, it means I didn’t scream so it’s ok to keep going and maybe ramp it all up a bit.  And John… he’s not as straight with me sometimes.  Sam has no problem talking about anything and being blunt.  Scarring, pain, weakness, mental health, even sex.  He doesn’t hold back or sugar-coat or say we can talk about it later.  And I appreciate that.  I’ve never known a doctor who tells it like it is, well I _have_ known some who did and they were right bastards about it.  Sam somehow makes you feel that it’s all good no matter what.  It’s _all_ fine and you just do what you can with what you have and say fuck off to anyone who thinks it makes you less of a person.”

And that was, unfortunately, completely understandable.  Mycroft knew John had tremendous reservations about taking on the care of Lestrade and for many of these reasons.  Sherrinford had been the balancing force.  The one to speak and act without sentiment.  Perhaps… even if could not find it in himself to forgive his brother for past sins, he could suffer his presence sufficiently to return him as a caretaker for his partner’s health.  Now that there was no further threat of discovery of his identity, he might even be willing to take on a more substantial role, freeing John to return to his more usual life and activities with Sherlock.  That much he could likely withstand for the sake of his dear Gregory.  And… suffer the man’s attendance for a holiday meal, should the occasion arise.

      “You are well-justified in your perspective, Gregory and, if it is possible, I will see Sherrinford reinstalled as one of your physicians.   I make no promises as to his and my personal relationship, but a personal relationship would not be required for his role in your health care.  I shall do my very best to obtain that for you, my dear, for there is nothing more precious to me that your well-being.”

      “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, Mycroft.”

      “That is such an insignificant concern compared to your health that it scarcely ranks as a pebble beside a mountain.  Now, I take it that you are awake for the day?  Shall we see about getting you ready to meet your brethren?”

      “We?  Shouldn’t you be going in to your office?  World still needs saving, you know.”

      “I am well aware and I can accomplish the task today from home, if necessary.”

      “You want to make sure me and my mates don’t destroy the place, don’t you.”

      “I trust that you would not count among your social acquaintances a horde of barbarians, so that fear does not occupy my mind.  Rather, I have a desire to participate in Sherlock and Arthur’s endeavors, at least so far as some basic information processing and that is best conducted in private.  And my physical presence is not always required for my efforts to be effective for my duties.  I would ask you, instead, if you are hesitant to make our relationship known to your colleagues.”

      “What?  No!  Good god, no.  I’ll get some teasing because of it, no doubt about that.  Common boy like me with someone like you, but it’ll be good natured.  For the most part.  The worst is going to be that you’re Sherlock’s brother.  That’s probably had people’s brains spinning and gibbering like a monkey.  I think they mostly believe he hatched from an egg someone left at the front door of St. Bart’s.”

      “A birth he would gladly claim if he could.  And Mummy, as well.  He, as is his habit, made the process as difficult as he could for all involved.  The doctor considered sending in explosives to dislodge the stubborn creature.”

Lestrade laughed and Mycroft patted himself on the back that as feeble were his jokes, they made his lover happy, all the same.

      “I can picture that with no problem whatsoever.  And if you are actually volunteering, I’d love a hand getting myself together.  They’re not going to be by until later, but a good clean up and some decent clothes would be nice.  And I’ve got some exercises to do, but John helps me with those.”

      “Very good.  I believe that can all be coordinated very efficiently and still provide you time for a small rest prior to your visitors arriving.  Dare I ask if you are willing to broach the subject of breakfast?  Arthur is cooking and I am certain he would be very willing to prepare you something slightly less exotic than that which the rest of us shall be blessed.”

      “Food!  Yes, food is great.  Food is very, very great.  Toast and eggs have been working well, so how about more of that?”

      “Whatever you desire.  In fact… I shall relieve Arthur of the task and prepare it myself.”

      “You?”

      “I _can_ cook, you know.”

      “I remember and it was fantastic.  I just… I just wish I could see that.  You and Arthur in the kitchen together.  That’d be a show you could sell tickets for.”

Mycroft debated with himself and decided if the idea was flawed he would rely on his partner to be honest and say so.

      “We _could_ place you in your wheelchair and you could join the audience for our performance.   If, however, you feel it would be too strenuous…”

      “NO!  No, absolutely not!  I’d love to actually eat in the kitchen, too, with the rest of you lot.”

      “Let us see how you feel as the time progresses.  If you are able, I see no reason to exclude you from the table, however, do not attempt to conceal any distress or you know well the consequences.”  

      “Yeah, I do.  I promise to be good.”

      “Then let us make a start.  I assume you do not wish to make your appearance in your robe, exquisite though it may be.”

      “Not everyone can make a polka-dot robe look this good, you know.  I’m more concerned about what might happen if I reach for a little salt and the whole thing opens up.  Not that it wouldn’t be a good show, but Sherlock would probably freeze into stone seeing me in the altogether.”

      “I do not doubt the possibility.  Let us place that among our arsenal of weapons against his final leap into hysterical botheration.”

      “That’s me – the human weapon of mass destruction.”

      “You readily penetrate _my_ defenses, do you not?”

      “I love it when you talk dirty.”

__________

      “Greg!”

Arthur dropped the spoon he was using as a microphone to sing along with the radio and raced over to give Lestrade a fingertip hug and a perform a little dance when he was done.

      “Good morning, Arthur.  Thought I’d join you for breakfast, if that’s ok.”       

      “Ok?  That would be brilliant!  And I’ve got lots of good things cooking, so there’s plenty to choose from.  Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson are awake, too, so they’ll have breakfast with us, also and… this is wonderful!  I’ve got to remember to tell Skip we all had breakfast together when I talk to him later.”

Arthur dived back to his cooking and Mycroft gently squeezed Lestrade’s shoulders as they shared a smile at Arthur’s enthusiasm.

      “Actually, my boy, I shall take care of Gregory’s repast, if you do not mind.  He is somewhat restricted in what he is allowed at the moment.”

      “Hurray!  We get to cook together!  This is the most brilliant day and it’s only just started!”

With a quick kiss to his Gregory’s head, Mycroft heaved a deep breath and darted into the fray.  He had never considered cooking to be a close-combat situation; however, those skills came quickly into play as he shared the cooking space with Arthur.  In a few minutes, Sherlock and John joined the rest and, after John slapped Sherlock on the back to relieve his choking upon seeing his brother involved in the task of food preparation, Sherlock took a seat across from Lestrade and John tended to the beverages.  In a few more minutes, Lestrade had his simple breakfast in front of him and nodded slightly to Mycroft’s whispered ‘are you still well?’ before sinking his fork into his eggs and beaming widely.  The more colorful dishes were divided among the remaining plates and with everyone provided with food and drink, breakfast began and continued, much to everyone’s slight surprise, without any incident to disrupt the collegial atmosphere.  As Arthur began to clear away the dishes, the various plans for the day began to gel.

      “Good.  I shall not be here when the various slackjaws and dullwits parade through your ostentatious halls, only to be blinded and made further useless by the extravagance.”

      “And you wonder why the lads don’t warm to you, Sherlock.  Really, would it stop your heart to give a little credit where credit is due?”

      “I did.  Full credit for being moronic, inept and lazy.”

      “Mr. Sherlock, I think we need to have one of our little talks.”

      “No, Arthur, we do not.  You haven’t interacted with the various loads occupying New Scotland Yard and…”

      “Yes, I have.  I got to talk to them when we had to find little Helen and they were brilliant!  Finding clues, doing… policeman things.  I admit they weren’t as good as you, but that doesn’t mean you should say mean things about them.”

Sherlock accepted the rebuke gracefully since it was clothed in praise and simply rose with the announcement he was getting his coat, before leaving Arthur to quickly finish clearing the table and chase after him.

      “Good heavens, I did think for a moment that was you, Doctor Watson, so keenly was Arthur on Sherlock’s heels.”

      “Ha bloody ha.  The difference is that Arthur actually left unfinished tea behind.  That would _not_ be me.”

John took Lestrade’s sniggering as a good thing and scaled back his worry about his friend’s condition.  He’d been shocked to see Lestrade up and around, even in his wheelchair, but if Mycroft let him do it, the Detective Inspector must have felt up to it.  Or was very successful in convincing Mycroft that was the case.

      “And if Mycroft is going to be home all day, I may nip back to the flat and see how much damage Sherlock has caused.  If I need to hire an exterminator, a hazardous materials unit or a priest, I probably should know now.  That alright with you two?”

      “Fine with me.  I know Mycroft’s got some things to do, but I can manage.” 

      “And the items I wish to accomplish can be done in your presence, so you shall not be left without assistance.  Please do as you wish with the day, John.  We shall manage quite well.”

Actually, the thought just hit Mycroft that this would be the first time he would be solely responsible for Lestrade’s care and, not that the thought was exactly frightening, it did raise a small flag of anxiety that he took pains to conceal from view.

      “Ok, then.  I’ll be off as soon as I get this invalid’s vitals on his chart.  He takes a turn for dead, I want proof that I left him in good shape.”

Now, the thought _was_ becoming frightening and Mycroft would make his first alone moment dedicated to rearranging the contact list on his mobile so that John was at the top, followed by emergency services.

      “John, stop with the doom and gloom talk or I’ll have to spend the whole day with Mycroft holding my wrist so he can track my pulse.”     

      “Thought you’d like to hold hands all day with your bloke like those old couples you see in the park.”

      “He’s calling us old, Mycroft.  Off with his head.”

      “Of course, my dear.  I shall ring the executioner post haste.  Is there a particular jumper in which you would like to be buried, John, or shall I simply choose something tasteful on my own?”

      “You two deserve each other.  Now, I’m going to grab a quick shower and then you, Greg, can expect a nice prostate exam and about 30 blood draws when I’m done.”

John exchanged slightly-modified waves with Lestrade and moved the Detective Inspector’s coffee out of his reach before he left the kitchen for his shower.

      “He violated my coffee.  Beheading’s too good for him.”

      “Calm thoughts, Gregory.  You must save your energy for your guests.”

      “If he tries to prostate me, I’m going to fart on him.”

      “Your methods of revenge astound me with their subtlety and finesse.”

      “Sometimes the direct way is best.”

__________

      “Hmmm…  I must admit this is not exactly the residence I would have expected Sherrinford to choose.”

      “I think it’s brilliant.  There’s a bedroom, kitchen, this big room here where the telly could go… what more does anyone need?”

      “If you’re Mycroft, a butler’s pantry, bidet and cake safe.”

      “I haven’t forgotten our little chat, Mr. Sherlock.  Do you want to have it right now?”

      “No.”

      “Are you going to be nice and not say silly things about Mycroft?”

      “Censorship is an insult to civilization, so I refuse to agree to your demands.”

      “Well, I don’t want to be censory, but since I think you’re having me on a bit I’ll still wag my finger so you remember to be polite.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Arthur’s wagging finger followed the roll so Sherlock couldn’t lose sight of it.

      “There.  Now, where do you want to start?”

      “I shall investigate the bedroom and you may begin in here.  Do not ignore anything – set all evidence aside for me to examine.  If you exhaust this room, begin again in the kitchen.”

      “Ok.  And look.”

Arthur extracted a small magnifying glass from his pocket and brandished it proudly.

      “I bought this last time I was in London, which wasn’t long ago so it’s still very new and this is the first time I’ve had a chance to use it!  Well, that’s not really true, because I use it a lot to look a very tiny things, but this is the first time I’ve used it for a case!”

      “That will be immeasurably helpful.”

Arthur immediately set about examining every piece of the room and the small closet along the back wall and Sherlock turned his attention to the bedroom.  Small, rather dark… the view from the dirty window was singularly uninspiring.  For someone as foolish and flamboyant as his brother, the room was incongruous.  The entire flat was an anomaly, actually.  And furnished it had not been much better, as he discovered from last night’s questioning of John.  John’s opinion was that its proximity to his work and a general disinterest in his surroundings were the key factors in Sherrinford’s choice, but Sherlock was not entirely certain that was the case.  His brother had gladly embraced the comforts Mycroft’s home had to offer.  He seemed, for lack of a better phrase, at home and quite pleased with the opulence.  But he lived in this slightly run-down flat, working for wages that were not laughable, but with his experience and skill level, did not coincide with what he could earn in private practice in the United States.  And he had lived this way since… John was left alone.

Scouring the bedroom, Sherlock found nothing that would yield clues to his brother’s destination and a survey of the bath produced the same result.  Seeing Arthur still examining the main room of the flat, Sherlock turned attention to the kitchen and found, wedged into a crack between two boards of the cupboard beneath the sink, a small scrap of paper with numbers handwritten on it.  From the very peculiar mix of precision and anarchy in the letter formation, Sherlock recognized easily his brother’s writing.  Part of the paper was torn away, but enough remained that Sherlock surmised he was looking at a series of phone numbers, even if a few were only partially preserved on the paper.

      “Mr. Sherlock!  I found a clue!”

Sherlock pocketed the paper and returned to Arthur, who was staring at his own scrap of paper.

      “I think it’s a receipt.”

      “Yes, the word ‘Receipt’ at the top is a strong indicator.”

      “And it’s got the same date as my letter, so Doctor Sam probably got it on the same day.”

      “True.”

      “It’s for alcohol.”

      “That is completely unsurprising.”

      “A lot of alcohol.”

      “That is also completely unsurprising.”

      “No, I mean a LOT of alcohol.  Like he was buying lots because he wanted to make sure he _had_ lots in case he wasn’t able to buy any for awhile.”

And someone selling that much alcohol might make casual inquiries about the purchase.

      “Very good, Arthur.  This could be helpful.”

      “Did you find anything, Mr. Sherlock?”

      “This.”

Sherlock pulled out the paper scrap and handed it to Arthur who studied it carefully.

      “These, I believe, are numbers.”

      “Well spotted.”

      “But they’re numbers numbers.”

      “That requires clarification.”

      “Numbers!  Like for your phone!”

      “I believe they are.  Of course, we would need to actually verify that by attempting to use them for their intended purpose.”

      “Oh!  We get to call and talk to people?  Brilliant!  Can I do it?   Please?  I’ve got my phone right here.”

Arthur took out his mobile and waved it at Sherlock who decided it wouldn’t hurt anything to let Arthur’s unique questioning technique have a first run at the information.  He would use the opportunity to speak to his brother’s neighbors and find out what he could from them.

      “Very well, however, transcribe your conversation as best you can so I may review it when I return.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “To interview the other residents of this building.”

      “But we didn’t buy any pastries or tea, yet.”

      “Perhaps next time.”

__________

_Item 1 – his brother was quite popular among the resident of the building._

_Item 2 – his brother shared extremely little information about his present or past life with the residents of the building._

_Item 3 – despite his continual braggadocio, his brother rarely entertained women in his flat, in fact, he rarely entertained at all._

_Item 4 – in the days prior to his departure, his brother’s mood had darkened considerably and his drinking increased, if the quantity of bottles appearing in the recycling bins was any indication._

_Item 5 – in the days prior to his departure, his brother had made some small inquiries about locations for a holiday, mostly centering in Great Britain or Western Europe._

_Item 6 – the residents of the building had been very sorry to see his brother leave and were actually concerned for his welfare._

Sherlock took his virtual lack of relevant information back to his brother’s flat, where he found Arthur playing a game on his phone.

      “Did you complete your inquiries?”

      “I certainly did.  They’re hotels!  Well, hotels or inns or rooms to rent for holidays.  And they sound brilliant, too.  I might try and get Skip to go on a lovely holiday in a nice little inn in the country.”

      “Were all of the locations rural?”

      “Every one!  Lots of fields and sheep and hills and trees and it sounded amazingly restful and lovely.”

      “That could explain his hording of alcohol.”

      “That’s what I was thinking.  I mean, and I’m saying this nicely, but Doctor Sam drinks a LOT and a comfy little pub might not have all the alcohol he wants.  And he also seems to like to drink alone, which you can’t really do in a pub, unless there’s nobody else there, which doesn’t happen too often unless it’s a very bad pub and you wouldn’t want to go there anyway.”

      “Locations?”

      “For the very bad pubs?  I’m not sure, but you could probably ask Douglas and he could tell you.  Or John or Greg, they seem like they’d enjoy a good evening out at a pub and might know the bad ones, too.”

      “Locations of the places you telephoned, Arthur.  The codes indicated Scotland, is that correct?”

      “Oh!  Yes.  The pretty parts of Scotland, too, which is a nice thing to think about, actually.  Doctor Sam having a holiday in a quiet, restful area with lots of sheep and hills and pretty flowers.”

      “I doubt he would leave his room since sheep are not known to dispense alcohol upon demand.”

      “There are dogs who do that, though.  I saw that on one of my programs.  I think if Mycroft and Greg get a dog, then Doctor Sam should have one, too, but maybe not one with the little barrel under its chin because Doctor Sam really doesn’t need any more alcohol.  I think he has enough as it is and it would be rather mean to the doggie to do all that work for nothing.”

      “Leaving aside the imaginary St. Bernard for now, was Sherrinford actually in residence at any of those locations?”

      “No, and I checked very thoroughly.  I even did my American accent so they’d know what he sounded like in case they’d never heard an American before and not one person I talked to had seen anyone who looked like Doctor Sam or talked like Doctor Sam or smelled like beer like Doctor Sam.  I suspected he wouldn’t use his own name and checked everything I could think of, but I don’t think he’s staying with anyone I called.  There were two Americans that made reservations, though.  One for next week and one for a few days ago, at a different hotel, but that person didn’t show up.  They paid for the room in advance, though, so don’t worry that the poor innkeeper lost any money.”

      “It is possible, I suppose, for Sherrinford to make false reservations to conceal his tracks.”   

      “But why, Mr. Sherlock.  Not to be a raincloud, because you know I don’t hold with being droopy, but do you think Doctor Sam thought anyone would try to find him.  I mean _I_ would try, but I’m not a full detective yet, so I doubt that I would have been able to do much to learn where he is.”

      “But you _would_ broach the issue with Mycroft and, in all likelihood, convince him to use his resources to find Sherrinford.”     

      “Which I did!  You’re right, and he would have figured that out because Doctor Sam may not be a detective, but he _is_ very good at thinking.”

      “Given an indication that he would be pursued, it is unlikely that Sherrinford would leave a clear trail to follow.  The cash reserves he removed from the bank could support him for a moderate amount of time, at least enough to secure a new situation for employment.  Though I did not ascertain his facility with languages, I would assume he would prefer to resettle in an English-speaking area, as it is likely he would have to recertify in his profession in his new country of residence.  I will set Mycroft’s minions on investigating the remainder of the inns and hotels in the region to see if he is present or has been present in the past few days.”

      “Hurray!  We might find Doctor Sam!”

      “It is too soon for self-congratulation, Arthur.  It is equally as likely that  this is irrelevant to our purpose, though his neighbors did indicate he made inquiries about locales in Scotland, as well as Wales, France and Switzerland, among other countries.  As of now, Scotland would be our most likely target, but it is by no means a sure thing.”

      “Do we get to go?  I must admit that I don’t mind going on a little trip of our own, especially if it’s somewhere lovely with nice flowers.”

      “We shall see.  First, we should exhaust the possible sources of evidence in London before we go afield.  Next, I think, the purveyor of Sherrinford’s liquors.  Then we should check with Mycroft for any progress on locating Sherrinford’s other identities.”

      “And then lunch?”

      “Arthur, we just had breakfast.”

      “Yes, but I didn’t eat as much as I would have normally because I thought we were getting pastries and tea to share with Doctor Sam’s friends and I wanted to save room for that.”

      “We shall purchase pastries and tea on the way to investigate the receipt.”

      “Can I have cream-filled pastries?”

      “Yes.”

      “With chocolate on top?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you going to have one, too?”

      “Yes.  Don’t tell John.”

__________

Mycroft sat in the chair next to Lestrade’s bed and blinked back the small amount of cloudiness in his mind.  Though time had passed since his concussion, he still experienced moments of mental fog that irritated him highly.  However, it was a small price to pay for the resolution to that dreadful business.  To date, the unraveling of that entire network was nearly complete and only a few minor functionaries remained to catch in the net.  It was a major victory, but had been so costly for him.  What he had nearly lost was unthinkable and… well, he would not count his brother in that category which was solely reserved for his partner, however, he could not deny that Sherrinford had nearly been a casualty of the situation.  He could have lost his brother, never knowing he had found him again and he had no firm grip on how that made him feel.  He would have felt the loss of the man he knew as Samuel, aggravating though he be, but… Sherrinford… no, now was not the time to dwell on such things.

While Lestrade was engrossed in a truly ghastly display of grotesquely-hypertrophied masculinity and ordinance, Mycroft began his investigation of his brother’s possible aliases.  Sherrinford’s bank balance was slight compared to what should have been his worth, even factoring in Sherry’s wasteful ways.  It would take gross mismanagement of funds to leave him solely with the balance he had withdrawn, so more was located elsewhere.  Investments were likely, though little under his currently assumed name could be found.  A retirement account with a modest value and some random stocks that amounted to a less-than-impressive portfolio.  The rest…

The rest would require hunting and a good data hunt was always something to be enjoyed.  Once again he studied ‘Samuel Harris’ and this time, details screamed from the page and slapped him full force across the face.  Before, he had perused the medical records only so much as to ensure there was no evidence of dangerous mental illness or a physical issue that might impact his surgical performance.  Not once had he marked the childhood bout with pneumonia, the broken leg or the allergies to certain pollens that had made specific times of year miserable for his brother.  His financial records were obviously erroneous, however, his base salary was accurately reported for tax purposes as were charitable contributions, which amounted exclusively to monies given to charities benefitting animals.  As a child, Sherrinford showed no excessive concern for the human species, beyond what he could gain from interacting with it, however… the only time he saw his brother truly weep was during a film where a dog met an untimely and tragic end.  He was the one who would climb a tree to return a baby bird to its nest or feed any stray cat or dog that decided the estate might offer shelter and a free meal.  Exceptional grades, though spotty attendance in school, due mostly to a reluctance to sit in class than any form of illness.  An early job where he hired himself out to play piano at social functions.  Sherrinford was… spectacular with the piano.  As talented and passionate as Sherlock was for the violin… 

The more Mycroft looked at the early records, the more clearly they shouted Sherrinford’s identity to anyone who paid sufficient attention to the details.  The names and locations differed, but events and conditions were identical.  The later records he had no basis to verify, however, they still painted a very familiar portrait of the brother he had known.  The trick now would be to find men of his brother’s age with a startlingly similar history.  Men of different nationalities with an on-paper life that mirrored that of Samuel Harris.  As no results had arisen from a search based on his brother’s photograph, besides that of the Samuel Harris himself, Mycroft had to assume that altered versions were currently in use for other possible identities.  Or completely different images altogether.  If his brother could maintain those records through some mechanism, likely put in place by Father, he could easily alter the photographs after claiming one as his new primary persona, should the occasion arise.  Of course, all of this was speculation, but his brother, despite his unceasing buffoonery, was not stupid and would take steps to ensure his remaining options for a life remained open in the event they were needed.

It was not often Mycroft engaged in his own inquiries, since he could assign any number of people with any amount of computer power to the task, however, this was a job for him alone.  No one had the right instinct, save him, for this assignment.  Instinct, insight, intuition… those were the key elements.  What fit, but actually did not.  What did not fit, but truly did.  By the end of his lover’s film, Mycroft had a list of possibilities that he would delve into more deeply later on.  Now, however, it was time to make final preparations for their guests.

      “Mycroft, you really don’t have to stay for this.  You’re going to be bored to tears and probably wanting to knock a few heads together after the first ten minutes.”

      “Forsake an opportunity to study your interpersonal interactions with colleagues in close quarters?  Nonsense.  This shall be highly informative and I shall not let the occasion pass me by.”

      “You want to make sure no one sneaks me contraband like beer, cigarettes or pornography.”

      “I am not the morality police, Gregory.  However, I cannot guarantee there shall not be a full-body scan required for any person wishing to gain entrance to this room.”

      “Now I’m worried you’re checking out my mates’ equipment in case you decide to go shopping for my replacement.”

      “What a silly thought, especially with your own… anatomy… experiencing a revitalization.  One does not replace that which suits one perfectly.  And I intend to keep my perfect partner in as robust health as I am able, so if I notice that you are experiencing undue fatigue or distress, even though you are attempting to conceal the fact, I shall politely end your visit and suggest it be continued at a later time.

      “Polite isn’t going to work with that lot.  Still got that gun taped under my bed?”

      “Not that I shall admit to a room filled with law enforcement professionals.”

      “Like they could arrest _you_.”

      “Arrest, yes.  Detain, no.  But why waste their time in such a foolish manner.”

      “Yeah, best to keep the foolishness to a minimum.”

      “Precisely.”

__________

When the chime sounded for the door, Mycroft patted Lestrade’s leg and rose to answer it, wondering for a fleeting moment if he should adopt any variation to his normal personality to make his guests feel more at home.  Though he greatly enjoyed communication with his partner and words flowed with ease, thus was not the case with others and Mycroft, despite his age, wealth and power, felt a slight and miserably-familiar twinge associated with deep-seated memories of being the odd boy out, be it at school or a social situation.

That feeling diminished rapidly seeing the very hesitant faces waiting outside the door and the large bouquet of balloons that would take effort to pull through the door.  He had seen that hesitation before in his own lover’s features, the uncertainty that you were allowed to be where you were seeking entrance.  Apparently, he was not the only one feeling slightly apprehensive about this meeting.

      “Good afternoon, Gregory is delighted you have come to visit him.  Please follow me.”

Mycroft ushered the small group into the entrance and smiled slightly as he paused to let them take in their surroundings.  It was not pride, but rather, the enjoyment of knowing that he could give his partner a life that could make his colleagues envious.  It was a petty thought, but, satisfying nonetheless.

      “This is… nice.  You’re sure he’s really living here?”

      “Yes.  And he shall continue to do so after he recovers.”

The rather sharp-looking woman who asked the question shared a glance with a dark-haired man next to her, receiving a look of disbelief in return.

      “And… you’re Sherlock’s brother.”

      “That is the case, yes.  Mycroft Holmes, at your service.”

Another shared glance, this time drawing in others of the group and Mycroft was delighted that it seemed there was difficulty reconciling his own poised and mature self with the squalling infant that was his brother.

      “Oh… ok.”

      “How is he?  We weren’t told very much on the phone.”

The dark-haired man looked a little surprised that he’d blurted out the question, but all eyes turned to Mycroft for the answer.

      “He is doing well.  His progress is quite remarkable, actually.  I daresay few who received two large bullets to the chest, as did Gregory, would survive, let alone demonstrate his degree of recovery at this point.”

      “Wait… two bullets?  He was shot twice?”

More looks were shared, these of the shocked and rather panicked variety.

      “I take it Gregory did not paint a full picture of his situation.  He endured the insult of two bullets, delivered at close range by a large-caliber weapon.  He… he remained alive only through the heroic measures of another at the scene and… we lost him a number of times in the hours subsequent to his assault.  Other circumstances compounded his condition, requiring further surgery that set back his well-being somewhat significantly.”

Mycroft was surprised at how difficult it was to discuss Lestrade’s condition, even in such basic and sterile terms, but he would not deny the cold knot in his stomach that formed as he told his tale.

      “However, he has, as expected, demonstrated tremendous strength and force of will and is in far better condition than one might expect.  He is also very anxious for your visit, so shall we begin?”

Small nods served for his answer and Mycroft smiled as comfortingly as he could to alleviate the anxiety that had risen in his guests.  It was good to see the worry, the concern… it meant there was a true connection between his Gregory and the members of his team.  Connections were positive things, they promoted contentment, security, happiness even, and that something greatly to be desired for someone overcoming a gross physical assault.  Yes, this afternoon would be very helpful for his dear Detective Inspector’s spirits.  So long as he had no fear of balloons…

Before he escorted the group into the bedroom, Mycroft knocked lightly on the door to give Lestrade fair warning, then led their guests into the space, which had been provided with extra chairs for the event.  Taking the balloons, Mycroft tied them to Lestrade’s bed, which made his lover laugh, then chose a seat for himself, slightly apart from the others, so they could crowd around the bed and start the barrage of questions.  Very quickly it was Mycroft’s chance to chuckle, listening to the continuous stream of chatter, all of which stripped his Gregory of his little fibs about his health and demonstrated the rapport among the participants.  And, despite his somewhat jesting comment, he did wish to observe more closely the relationships within this group.  This was his Gregory’s support system away from home.  These were the people with whom his lover would spend his days and be the ones he trusted to safeguard his welfare when they conducted their duties.  Oh yes, he was very interested in these people…

__________

After awhile, Mycroft excused himself to make some calls and when he returned, it was without any shame that he loitered outside the door, which he had left open when he departed, to gain a more uncensored profile of the dynamics of Lestrade’s team.  Apparently that profile would begin with the female, the Donovan Sherlock was known to groan about, who seemed unafraid to tackle the difficult issues head-on.

      “You should have been honest with us.”

      “Little white lie.   One bullet or two, it doesn’t matter.”

      “It matters.  It matters a lot actually. Your… Mycroft… told us what really happened and… you should have told us, that’s all.”

      “Look, Mum, the end result was the same.  I’m getting better every day.  Stronger and more cranky, just like old times.  Pretty soon, I’ll be back on my feet and planting those feet up your collective arses.”

      “Any idea how long?  Do you think it’ll be modified duty or are you going to be back out with us?”

The dark-haired man who Mycroft’s mental files named Anderson, also seemed willing to confront the hard questions.

      “Not sure. For both.  John says I’m doing very well, but it’s still a long road back and no one can guarantee what the final result is going to be, but I’m hoping to get back to my old job completely.  No getting chained to a desk until they phase me out with a nice pat on the back and a pension.”

      “At least if that happens, you don’t have to worry about eating from the bins outside of restaurants.  This is… you’ve got a nice set-up here.”

No, Mycroft was not feeling smug.  It was simply a small glow from his love for his dear Gregory.

      “Yeah, it is.  I’m lucky Mycroft’s willing to let my raggedy self bring down the property value.”

That would form the basis of a future conversation, even if his Gregory meant that as a joke.

      “And just what _is_ your relationship with him?  It’s not as if you shared any of that with us, either?”

Oh, very good, Ms. Donovan.  Please ferret out as much critical information as you care to and do it with my blessing.

      “My relationship is my business, thank you very much.”

Boo!

      “It’s not only your business if he’s the reason you nearly got dragged in for a little chat with the Superintendent about going mental there for awhile.”

Oh dear… perhaps the flow of information should be stemmed at this point.

      “Fine.  Mycroft and I haven’t had the smoothest relationship.  It, um… it was pretty rocky there for a little while, but we worked it out.”

      “Can’t say I’m surprised if he’s Sherlock’s brother.”

Now, that was completely uncalled for.

      “Shut it, you.  Mycroft’s a good man, he just… we both made some mistakes and went through a rough patch, but that’s in the past.  He’s the one I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with, if you want the whole truth.  There’s no one I can even dream of wanting to be with more than him and, yes, I just let that sappiness run out of my mouth in public, so you know I’m being serious.  I just didn’t want to spread it around until I was certain about things and now I am.  I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

Mycroft felt his heart leap so strongly, he was not entirely unsure it had lodged itself in his throat.  To his friends, his colleagues, the ones he counted as important in his life, a sincere and definitive declaration of his love and intentions had been made.  There was no misinterpreting his lover’s words and no possibility that their guests would fail to understand their importance.  His Gregory was proud of their union and wanted… wanted fervently for it to span the remainder of their years.  It was not as if they had yet to broach the topic, however, hearing it discussed so openly was… powerful.

      “So, should I be shopping for a new dress for your wedding?”

This was a _very_ useful bit of surveillance, now wasn’t it?

      “I’d hold off on that for awhile.  I’m not making any plans for anything until I’ve got these stupid holes in my chest as nothing but a memory.  And… ok, maybe there’s been the tiniest fraction of a minute sliver of a possibility of an extremely casual and off-the-cuff mention of something approximating a discussion of a wedding, but… who knows.  I’m not entirely sure Mycroft’s ultimately the marrying kind.  His work, well you have no idea what his work is like.  Makes ours look like relaxing.  Add in the stress of having a husband at home… like I said, we’ll see.”

      “That’s weak.  Sir.  What do _you_ want?”

Oh yes.  Excellent question.

      “When did this turn into some daytime drama with weepy women wailing over their love life?”

      “Answer the question or it’ll go hard for you.”

      “You know, I’ve knocked the heads of a few lads who called you a bitch, but now I’m starting to see what they meant.”

      “Stop obstructing justice, Mr. Lestrade.”

      “Ok!  Yes, if I had my way I’d want to see us married after I got myself back in order and we had some time to settle into something more normal than… this.  I’d like that.  I’d like it a lot.  I’d want to stroll around with him on my arm and introduce him as my husband to everyone we ran into.  I believe that when you love someone with the kind of love that sinks its claws into you and _never_ lets go that you should marry that person.  Show them that you want the whole thing with them.  You want to share your life and sit them right in the center as the most important person in it.  But, like I said… we’ll see.  It’s not something I’m really thinking about right now.”

Oh, but that was not entirely truthful, was it Gregory?  One would be a fool to think such emotion as was rich in your voice was for something about which you were giving no thought.  And if there was to be honesty, it was something that occupied a corner of his own mind and never quite hid itself away completely.  Now… now the idea would be given more thought.  Arthur would adore doing a bit of preliminary browsing for small tokens of betrothal…

      “Anyway, we’ve got another wedding to worry about and with all the business of wedding… stuff… who’s got time to think about planning another.”

      “Oh god, not Sherlock and John.”

      “No, my boy Arthur and his Martin.”

And that launched a conversation about the Fitton component of their family and Mycroft was very pleased to hear that not only was Arthur remembered from his little cases, he was remembered fondly.  And his Gregory _had_ shared information about his continued relationship with young Arthur, so there was great interest in the upcoming nuptials.  With the talk turned away from more personal matters, Mycroft crept away from the door and decided it would not be amiss to put together a small refreshment for their guests.  He had ensured that appropriate libations were delivered to please the palate of the most jaded policeman’s palate… and surely now, of all times, a celebration was appropriate.

__________

It was with some small regret that Mycroft ushered out those who had so greatly brightened his Gregory’s afternoon.  It was a good afternoon, a successful one.  And he had actually joined in the conversation somewhat, which seemed to please his partner immensely.  His parting words of ‘please do visit again soon’ were given with full sincerity and, when Mycroft returned to the bedroom, it was clear that the Detective Inspector harbored the same wish.

      “Weren’t you the social butterfly, my dear?”

      “Ha!  I guess so.  That was fun.  I was worried, actually, but that was a lot of fun.  Good to spend time with them and just… be a part of things again.”

      “Worried?  Why would you be worried?”

      “I don’t know.  That they’d pity me.  Treat me like something breakable.  Have that look in their eyes that said they had zero faith I’d ever be coming back.  But that didn’t happen, did it?”

      “No, it did not.  In fact, from what I have observed in the past, there was no appreciable change in their behavior towards you.  And I believe they are quite eager for you to return to your position.”

      “It looks like it.”

      “And that gratifies you profoundly.”

      “Sure it does!  I mean… it’s good to know I made a difference to them.  That I mattered enough to want me back.  I will… my old job _is_ still there for me, right?”

      “Most certainly.  The person currently performing your duties is very aware it is a temporary posting; however, they may also have been informed that it stands as an evaluation period for their readiness to take a prominent position of their own.”

      “And is that true?”

      “It is.”

      “Ok… I like that, actually.  Makes me feel like I’m not treating someone shabbily.  Thanks.  I know it was you who arranged it, so thanks very much for that.”

      “You are quite welcome, my dear.  Now, might I assume that a small trip to relieve yourself of your sparking water and limit-line of beer is in order?”

      “You would assume correctly.  Little trip to the loo is next item on my agenda.  Then… take me on one of those virtual tours.  Walk me through some wonderful city you’ve been to up there on the big screen?”

And one day, it would not be a virtual tour.  It would be the both of them exploring the cities of the world, sharing their experiences and all the joy they would bring.  For now, however, a more restful exploration was a wonderful way to get a taste of those future days.

      “I would be honored to escort you on a small holiday, Gregory.  First, though, let us tend to your comfort.  Do mind your head as you exit your bed.  Your canopy of balloons is quite formidable.”

      “Arthur is going to be in heaven.”

      “Something for which I am very pleased.  After a day with Sherlock, he is due the reward.”


	7. Chapter 7

      “No.”

      “Get your ass to the drugstore and get this filled.”

      “Two letters should be easy enough for you to actually understand, but I’ll give them to you a little more slowly this time.  N.   O.    No.  Did you get it or do I have to draw it out on paper?”

      “Don’t play smart with me sonny boy.  Not that you could with the itsy bitsy teeny weeny brain you’ve gotten hidden under that thatch of carrot patch hair of yours, but don’t try anyway.  It’s just embarrassing.  Now go get me this shit and stop being a lazy fucker.”

      “It’s illegal!”

      “How can it be illegal?  It’s a prescription.”

      “From John’s prescription pad!”

      “So?  John… Me… what’s the difference?”

      “I don’t have a piece of paper big enough for _that_ list.”

      “Ha ha hah.  You are _so_ not funny.  And you’re still not getting me my meds, so you’re not funny _and_ stupid because you are about three seconds from a bloody screaming death if I don’t get my shit!”

      “What are you going to do?  Fling a lethal carpet fiber into my eye?”

      “You think I won’t?”

Not a question Martin really wanted to answer.

      “Sam, I am _not_ going to bring an illegal prescription to a chemist’s and end up in jail!”

      “Wimp.  What’s a few years in jail compared to me getting pain meds!  You become some nice murderer’s prison wife and it’s smooth sailing.  I think you’d be good at it, if that helps.”

      “It does NOT help!  Anyway, when you first got that… _that_ … you wouldn’t even take any pain medication, so… deal.”

      “Did you just tell me to deal, you lil’ shit?”

No.  Or, more precisely, not that Martin wanted to remember.

      “Uh…. yes?”

      “Now _that’s_ funny.  I’ll spare your life this once as a reward.  You can even get yourself a nice lollipop when you pick up my pills.”

      “Sam…”

      “I’m dyin’ here, Martin.  And look!  I’ve even got antibiotics written down, so you don’t completely look someone who’s scamming controlled substances.”

      “This is Fitton!  If I have this filled someone’s going to find out!”

      “That’s pretty paranoid.  Do you often worry about nebulous someone’s finding out what sort of lube you use or about your socially-embarrassing athlete’s foot?”

      “I worry about… what if someone tells Carolyn that I’m picking up pain meds?  If I’d been hurt, we would have called her and….”

      “Crap… it’d put your job at risk, wouldn’t it?”

      “Yes!”

Sam ran his hands through his hair, scowling harshly, but Martin didn’t have the feeling the irritation was directed entirely towards him.

      “Fart.  I’m sorry, Martin.  I totally forgot.  You’re right, it’d be a boneheaded thing to do and I’m not going to ask that of you.”

      “Oh… well, thank you.”

      “Give me a lift to the ER and I’ll just steal them.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Don’t look at me like I said I’d blow you; I simply said I’d do a tour of the local hospital and pocket some happy pills.  Easy peasy.”

      “That is _completely_ illegal!”

      “Not this again…”

      “Jail!”

      “There’s no pleasing you, is there?  Look, I’m out of what I brought with me and I can’t just pirouette into the local quack’s hut and get handful of goodies.  Anyway, if you know the ins and outs of Hospitalworld, a heist is easy.  Sort of.  Luckily, I’m the sort of person to rise above sort of’s, even if it costs me my virtue.  Actually, _especially_ if it costs me my virtue.”

      “No.  I am not going to participate in thievery or your… debauchery!”

      “You share zero blood with me.”

      “Finally you say something I’m thankful for.”

      “Doesn’t matter anyway because…”

Sam dug in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys which he dangled in front of Martin’s face.

      “I have your keys!”

      “Give those back!”

      “Nope.  Finders keepers, losers can go fuck themselves.”

      “That’s _not_ how it goes.”

      “Sue me.”

      “Sam…”

      “This is going to go down one of two ways, Martin.  Either I drive myself or you drive me.  One will get you your van back in one piece and the other… it’s 50/50.  You decide what it’s going to be.”

Martin tried glaring at his nemesis and earned an upraised middle finger for his trouble.

      “That’s not much of a choice.”

      “Look how I’m wearing my ‘I don’t care’ face.”

      “If you get arrested, you don’t know me.”

      “Fair enough.  You don’t have enough money to bribe me out trouble anyway.”

      “I suppose you want to go now.”

      “What time is it?  Good.  Yeah, now’s the right time.  Shift change probably coming up and that’s a great time to do something sneaky.  Here, help me up and we can get going.  And we can stop for burgers on the way back.”

      “Do you do anything but drink and eat crap food?”

      “Did you just call pizza and burgers crap?”

Oh, so _that_ was what a glare looked like.  Martin mentally apologized for every attempt he’d ever made in his life.

      “Um… no?”

      “Smart.  Stay smart and you might stay alive.”

      “You really don’t scare me, you know.”

      “I’ve got keys now, Martin.  Want to know what I can do with a set of keys?”

Martin tried to envision the number of possibilities and when his brain shut down in the double digits, he heaved a sigh and pulled himself out of his chair.

      “Burgers it is.”

      “And fries.”

      “Chips.”

      “Don’t you dare speak English to me.”

__________

Well, wasn’t this lovely.  Sitting in his van waiting for Sam to shuffle through the building and commit a felony.  What a nice way to repay the kind people who helped Greg stay alive.  Though John seemed to have taken the lead in that.  And Arthur.  There was not a bit of doubt in his mind that Arthur worked miracles with Greg, not only on that miserable patch of road, but afterwards.  His boundless optimism and enthusiasm _had_ to have helped.  The so-called power of positive thinking had never worked for him, but for Arthur… it was the superpower of positive thinking and it worked wonders.  Miracles, that really was the right word for it.  Arthur believed that everything would be ok, everything would work out and it was hard not to think that, too, when you were wrapped up in his blanket of sunshine and flowers.  It _had_ helped Greg.  You could see it in the little boost of energy Greg got when he was lying there almost more dead than alive and he saw or heard Arthur.  Or caught a glimpse of his pictures and toys…  Arthur was a true and pure light in this world and now he had people who saw that and loved him deeply for it.  Appreciated him and happily took him under their wing.

Even though those people would never be fully known by Arthur, that much he would make sure of.  Nothing was making him shake the feeling of dread sitting here, remembering the last time he sat waiting for the Holmes family to do something… illegal, unethical, morally repugnant?  He never wanted to know exactly what Sherlock and Mycroft did that night in London, but he knew it could only be described as terrible.  Actually, _terrifying_ was probably closer to the mark.  They’d done something truly heinous and that something would never make its way into Arthur’s awareness.  But… they would do something equally heinous if anything happened to his fiancé and there was a very shameful comfort in that fact.  Anyone threatening or harming Arthur would find themselves in a world of destruction that had no doors or windows.  No escape possible.  And Mycroft would do whatever he would do with that same little smile on his face and it would be as if the matter had never existed.  Probably take Arthur out for ice cream afterwards in celebration, though Arthur would have no idea what the occasion was all about.  And that was fine.  Better than fine, actually.   That… _person_ … deserved their fate and so would anyone who hurt Arthur and this one time, he had little issue letting himself grow a tiny bloodthirsty streak.

Which might get used tonight if Sam… Sherrinford… whoever he was didn’t hurry up.  This was ludicrous and all it would take to end it all was a quick call to Arthur, but then his fiancé’s detective adventure would be over.  Arthur the detective… and not a bad one from what he’d seen.  And Sherlock actually tolerated him tagging along; no, that was a poor way to say it.  Sherlock _enjoyed_ him tagging along, which was still mind-boggling, but he was eternally grateful for it.  Once things settled down a bit, they wouldn’t be flitting back and forth from London as they had been, but there would still be cases now and again and he would make sure that Arthur had whatever time he needed to work on them.

      “You ever going to start this piece of crap?”

Rule number 1.  Never get so lost in your thoughts that strange people sneak up on you in your van.

      “Did anybody see you?”

      “No, the place was entirely filled with people who had no eyes.”

      “You know what I mean.”

      “Would I be here now if my nefarious scheme had been thwarted?”

      “I suppose not.”

      “You’re lucky Arthur’s the detective in the family because you suck.  Anyway, I got what I needed and a couple of sedatives to boot.”

      “What do you need those for?”

      “You.  One way or the other, I’m getting a good night’s sleep tonight.”

      “You… you slept fine last night!”

      “And I’m not breaking my streak.”

      “You’re as insane as Sherlock.”

      “Oh no… Sherlock has a long way to go before he gets to my level.  Give him time, though; he seems to be coming along nicely.”

      “My heart goes out to John.”

      “Miserable peewee deserves it.  He’s got his own flavor of crazy going on, don’t you think otherwise.”

      “So, they’re meant for each other.”

      “Match made in heaven.  Just like my future burger and fries.”

      “Chips.”

      “I’m gonna cut a bitch.”

      “You’re not as scary wearing a seat belt.”

      “Want to know what I can do with a seat belt?”

      “You need a new act.”

      “I’ve been thinking about career in porn.  Let me discuss the issue with you.”

      “One burger and fries coming up.”

      “That’s my boy.”

Martin pulled his van slowly away from the hospital, not that it could pull away any differently, and motored towards pushing something into Sam’s mouth so he could get a little peace and quiet.  And, with their attention focused elsewhere, neither man noticed the Lexus that pulled away from the hospital seconds later, turning to follow the pokey old van.

__________

      “Arthur, what in the world…”

Mycroft looked at the fortification Arthur had built on the tray that had previously held Lestrade’s small dinner and deduced at least one type of location Sherlock and Arthur had visited during their adventures.

      “Mycroft!  Greg said you were busy!”

      “And now I have shuffled off my burden to gladly find you here.  With… a multitude of tiny spirits bottles.”

      “Aren’t they brilliant!  Mr. Sherlock and I went to lots of places that sell alcohol and the people who worked there were so nice.  Every time I so much as looked at one of their big bottles, they handed me a little one to play with and then said I could keep them!  I’ve got all colors, too, even that one that nearly glows green.  It’s my favorite.”

      “Arthur’s been showing me his collection.  I have to say, he cut a fine swath through the spirits section.”

Mycroft walked over and took a small kiss from his lover’s lips, checking subtly that his Gregory hadn’t been sampling any of Arthur’s bounty.

      “He could’ve let me drink the vodka and you’d never know, you snoop.”

      “I would surely taste the fire of ethanol, regardless.”

      “Don’t worry, Mycroft.  I know Greg isn’t allowed to have a little drink unless someone is here to draw a line on the bottle and I’m not sure where you would draw the line on these because they’re so small and cute, but now that you’re here you can show me and Greg can have some of… this!  Doesn’t it look amazing!”

      “Most assuredly.  Such a vibrant yellow; quite a formidable shade.  Gregory, would you appreciate a glass… sip… of this lovely canary-hued liqueur?”

      “I think it’s radioactive.”

      “AAAHHH!!!!”

      “Be at peace, Arthur, Gregory is making a little joke.  And I put strenuous emphasis on the term ‘little.’  Perhaps we should leave him the comfort of his precious lager for now and save your lovely offer for a more opportune time.”

      “That’s a brilliant idea!  I’ll keep this one right with the others until Greg is ready for his lovely yellow drink.  Besides, with this one, I have an entire rainbow right on the end and isn’t that the prettiest thing ever?”

      “It is a vision of beauty.  Now, may I inquire as to the fruits of your investigatory labors?”

      “Come again?”

      “Did you and Sherlock discover anything notable today during your day of detective work?”

      “Oh!  Right… yes!  Well, there were my bottles of course, but we discovered those because we were looking for the shop that gave Doctor Sam this.”

Arthur drew the receipt that they found in Sam’s flat out of his pocket and handed it to Mycroft.

      “I see.  And was that a productive line of investigation?”

      “Well, we found the shop it came from and the shop owner talked to Mr. Sherlock for a long time.  He said that Doctor Sam asked about the best types of alcohol from Scotland, which was very much an important thing since I spent the morning calling nice little inns in Scotland to see if Doctor Sam was there.  Which he wasn’t, and I double- and triple-checked, but it was fun anyway and I decided to take Skip on a holiday with the sheep as soon as we can because the little inns sounded absolutely brilliant and who doesn’t want a brilliant holiday?”

Setting aside the sheep, Mycroft reflected on Arthur’s information.  Scotland… there was no connection he knew of between it and his brother.  Certainly nothing from their youth and a further nothing in the files which were now securely lodged in his memory.  But that could be the point… a locale not too far afield that would not be easily connected to his history.  Actually, the more he thought of it, the more the situation sense.  Sherrinford was not well, despite his foolish attempts to downplay his injury, and a short trip to recuperate before he embarked on a more permanent solution was entirely possible.  It would be a simple matter to circulate his photograph throughout every possible lodging facility, transportation center, medical provider…

      “Mycroft?  You thinking again, love?”

Lestrade tugged on Mycroft’s sleeve and broke his distraction to return him to the present.

      “Ah.  Yes, I was reflecting upon the ramifications of Arthur’s information.”

      “You believe Sam’s run off to play in the Highlands?”

      “It _is_ feasible.  Not a location I would suspect he would inhabit for long, but a temporary respite would not be out of the question.”

      “Think that’s enough for Sherlock and Arthur to go traveling?”

      “Perhaps...”

      “Hurray!”

      “Arthur… do not allow your enthusiasm to sway your investigation.  I shall discuss the matter with Sherlock and determine if his thinking coincides with mine.”

      “Brilliant!   I’m going to Scotland!”

      “Arthur, that’s not what Mycroft said.”

      “Yes, it is.  Mr. Sherlock said earlier that we would probably be going and now Mycroft just said he thinks that’s a good idea so they’re thinking alike and that means we’re going!  I’m going to go and get packed so I’m ready to leave right after I make breakfast in the morning!”

Arthur dashed out of the room, then dashed back in to take his liquor bottles in a large hug to clasp them against his chest and ran out a second time.

      “I think they’re going to Scotland.”

      “It appears so; Sherlock will not withstand Arthur’s joyful urgency for a moment.  I suppose I had better make arrangements.  And where _is_ my brother this fine evening?”

      “He and John are at their flat.  John wanted to get a good look at what God hath wrought since he’s been here and Sherlock wanted to check on some experiment he has growing up there in his new lab.  They’ll be back later, so, for the moment, we have the room to ourselves.”

Such a purely devilish look in his lover’s eyes and Mycroft allowed himself a small moment to imagine what might come of that devilish look when the good Detective Inspector was again hale and hearty.

      “That we do and what do you suggest we make of the opportunity?”

      “You could let your fingers take a little walk and say hello to someone who would be very happy to return the greeting.”

      “And if dear Arthur returns because he has, say, seen a face he recognizes in the pattern of the stars outside his window and simply must share his revelation?”

      “You are absolutely no fun.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, your pulchritude is astonishing, however, you shall not sway me into compromising your virtue or Arthur’s sensibilities in such an abhorrent fashion.”

      “I think I may have been insulted.”

      “Quite the opposite, but I shall concede that once we retire for the evening, my feelings on the matter shall certainly experience a notable shift.” 

      “Oh, going to give me a cuddle once the kids have gone to bed?”

      “That may resemble my plans to a certain degree.”

      “A big degree?”

      “I may calculate the value to be somewhat in the area of three hundred and sixty.”

      “That’s big enough for me.”

      “I did hear an expression bandied about among my subordinates that is amusingly applicable, I do believe – _that’s what she said_.” 

      “That’s bloody awful, so it’s perfect!  My Mycroft’s a comedian.”

      “I do try my best for you, my dear.  And, it is not out of bounds for us, perhaps, to engage in a _small_ measure of affectionate behavior for the time being.  For example, I now feel rather an urgent need to make a more thorough inspection of you for any hint of inappropriate imbibing.”

Mycroft sat next to Lestrade on his bed and leaned over to take a long, slow kiss from the man who had settled so deeply into his bones that Mycroft knew they could never be disentangled no matter what the future might bring.

      “Feel free to inspect anytime.  In fact, how about a second round right now?”

      “But of course.  I am nothing if not thorough and attentive to detail.”

__________

Arthur looked through his closet at the clothes he’d acquired in his various stays at Mycroft’s house and tried to decide what he needed to wear to go to Scotland.  He had lots of colors and polka dots and squidgy stripes but nothing plaid!  And they wore LOTS of plaid in Scotland.  Even for their hats.  And he didn’t have a hat to begin with!  This was serious.  The first thing he had to do was get a plaid hat.  With flaps over the ears because Scotland was cold.  If it wasn’t those poor sheep wouldn’t have to grow all that thick wool to stay cozy warm.  And then there was the issue of trousers.  None of those were plaid either, but at least they were long and warm and with a pair of his thick snuggly socks, there’d be no problem with cold ankles, which was absolutely no fun in the slightest.

As he began to contemplate the subject of pyjamas, Arthur’s reverie was broken by the sound of his mobile ringing and it was the work of a moment or two to swim across the very large bed to the nightstand to find out who was calling.

      “Hello?  Arthur Shappey, Steward of the Airplane and Detective’s Assistant speaking.”

      “Ah, Arthur.  I’m actually surprised you haven’t added lorry driver or goat rancher to your resume.  It _has_ been over a week since I have last heard from you.”

      “Douglas!  Hello!  And no, I haven’t taken on any other jobs, though I’m not sure I told you about being a doctor’s assistant, which was absolutely brilliant, so if I get to do that a few more times, I could have a another official second job and I think I might need to get some cards to give to people so they’ll remember all of the jobs I can do.”

      “Well, well, well… aren’t we an eager beaver.  And does this newly found therapeutic career have anything to do with the fact that I just followed Martin from our most illustrious medical facility?”

      “WHAT!  Hold on, let me sit down.  Oh, I _am_ sitting.  Actually, I’m laying down, which is even better because I feel a little faint.  Something happened to Skip?  What happened to Skip?  Details!  I’m a part-time doctor’s assistant and I can’t figure out what’s wrong with Skip if I don’t have details!  Doctor Watson!  I have to call Doctor Watson so he can listen to the details.   Hold on while I find out how to talk to you and call Doctor Watson at the same time.”

Douglas took a deep breath and savored the much-anticipated regret at placing the call.  If it wasn’t for his slight, but nagging, concern over Martin driving a passenger back from the A&E to a residence he certainly didn’t recognize, there would have been no reason to call.  But, since Martin had no friends, especially friends that seemed to be pushing him into the house when they returned, something sat uneasily in Douglas’s stomach as he sat in his car in front of the small, tidy house and he swallowed his desire to do anything else in the world but call Arthur Shappey and called Arthur Shappey.

      “Arthur, I suspect in that wash of words was a mote of concern for your fiancé, so allow me the privilege of assuring you that he seemed none the worse for wear for his little visit to the local leech layers.  I was rather confused, however, when he didn’t return to his grass hut but instead made his incredibly slow way to a very nice residence not terribly far from your mother’s house.”

      “Oh!  That’s Mycroft’s house.  Well, not Mycroft’s actually because he didn’t buy it, but he rented it and he said Skip could stay there while I’m here on a case so Skip could use the equipment Mycroft had there for us to talk face to face on my phone or the telly.  And, but don’t tell Skip I said this, I think Mycroft really wanted Skip to have a nice place to stay for awhile.  When Skip and I stopped by his flat, the students told him that a tall man in a suit visited one day and if I know Mycroft, and I do, he got a little sad seeing Skip’s flat and wanted him to get to stay in a comfy house since he’s by himself in Fitton right now.  It _is_ a comfy house, isn’t it?  Skip said it was, but he has a tendency to fib if he thinks I’ll get upset if he tells the truth.”

      “It’s simply charming.  Rustic with a pleasing soupcon of Queen Anne and Neoclassical.”

      “Is that good?”

      “Oh, absolutely.  I’m sure Captain Crieff will be very happy in his temporary residence.  But, Arthur… the reason Martin was at Fitton’s finest medical center was, apparently, to escort a rather wobbly someone to and fro and said someone followed Martin into Chez Crieff when they returned.  Now, given Martin’s particularly solitary and, shall I say, _peculiar_ nature, I am quite at a loss as to who would possibly place themselves in Martin’s care, let alone his van.”

      “What?”

Douglas tried to remember when he’d heard Arthur ask a one-word question before and failed miserably.

      “Can you be more specific?”

Not really, because Arthur was feeling what he was absolutely sure Sherlock felt when he had a lead on a case and it was a little overwhelming.  But he had to try because this was important!

      “Did… Skip was with a person?  A man person or a lady person?”

      “Well, it’s rather dark, but Douglas Richardson cannot mistake a female figure even in the most stygian darkness and this was most certainly not a female figure.  Far too tall and curveless.”

      “A man person, then… a _tall_ man person.  Douglas, did the man person smell like beer?”

      “Blessedly, I am not in a position to answer that question.”

      “Then I need you to go and sniff him.”

      “You do realize that the likelihood of my agreeing to your proposal rests somewhere between ‘under no circumstances’ and ‘bugger that’, don’t you?”

      “But this is critical to the case!”

      “My, don’t you sound professional?  However, I am still not going to engage in surreptitious sniffery, regardless of the reason.  And just what _is_ this case you keep babbling on about?”

      “I… I don’t think I can say right now.”

      “Well then, who is the case for?”

      “I don’t think I can say that either.”

      “I am drowning in the deluge of data.”

      “I’m sorry!  But part of being a detective is doing confidential things and I think this is one of them.  Now, go and sniff Skip’s friend.”

      “I will not!”

      “Oh!  I know!  Go and say hello and let me know if he’s American.”

      “Arthur… I suspect you have an inkling as to the identity of Martin’s visitor.  Why don’t you simply call Martin, ask him and lay your suspicions to rest?”

      “NO!”

      “That was a very forceful no, Arthur.”

      “I know and now you see how serious this is because I really don’t like to get forceful about anything.  Except for dancing. And sweets.  And polar bears.  And other bears.  And sometimes the color pink…”

      “Yes… who can forget Fitton’s Great Pink Candy Floss Fiasco?  If I remember correctly, you are still banned from even mentioning spun sugar in front of Carolyn on pain of losing your head to a pair of her gardening shears.”      

      “I must admit she does give me one of her special looks whenever we pass a sweet shop.”

      “And for more than one reason.  There is also the Jelly Worm Debacle of Easter Sunday on your record, don’t forget.”

      “No… I couldn’t forget that.  Snoopadoop had a little trouble on her walkies for two weeks after that.”

      “Except when she didn’t.  Carolyn had to replace, what was it… two rugs?”

      “Three.  And two pairs of shoes.”

      “Oh yes, how forgetful of me.  Now that we have addressed your dog’s digestive habits, let us return to the matter at hand.”

      “Yes!  Right!  Go sniff!”

      “And somehow we don’t leave the subject of canine behavior despite a valiant effort on my part to turn the tide of conversation.”

      “Douglas this is a case!  Sometimes you have to do things on a case that you wouldn’t normally do.  I had to slip and slide around in the mud on my second case, for instance.”

      “Arthur, you do that nearly every time there is a substantial rain.”

      “Oh yeah… but… I had to tackle someone, too!  And I don’t do that every time it rains, now do I?”

      “No, I must admit you’ve got me there.  But there is a very substantial and manly difference between tackling and sniffing.”

      “Well, then just go and listen.  Oh!  Or see if he’s oozing.  That could be another clue.”

      “My, this is spiraling downward quickly.  Arthur, if it will ease your mind, I shall happily knock on the door and ask Martin the name of his guest and…”

      “NO!”

      “And all the way round we go.”

      “Douglas, you can’t!  It’s very important that if Doctor Sam is actually there, he doesn’t know that anyone knows he’s there.  Except for Skip, which is very odd, since, when I talked to Skip, he didn’t mention Doctor Sam and that is certainly something he very much would have mentioned, I should think.  I suspect we’re going to need to have a little conversation about this.”

      “Absolutely your prerogative and I shall support you fully in your chastisement.  Now, am I permitted to know just who is this Doctor Sam?”

      “AH!  How did you know his name?”

      “It fell from your lips scant moments ago like petals from an aging rose.”

      “Oh. Right.  I suppose that’s true.  I think you should probably be talking to Mr. Sherlock since he’s actually the full-time detective and he’s a lot better at keeping secrets than I am and won’t let important secret details become important not-so-secret details like I sometimes do.”

      “But, since he’s also an officious twit, aren’t I lucky to be talking to you instead.”

      “Mr. Sherlock’s not a twit.  He’s… well, he _can_ be a bit twit-ish when he’s annoyed.  Or wants a cream bun.  Or talks to Mycroft.  Or anyone else, really.”

      “Now that we have established that Sherlock is a social hand grenade, I believe I shall simply ask if the mysterious Doctor Sam is currently in residence at Sir’s lovely new abode and…”

      “NO!”

      “Arthur, you are going to pay dearly for the hearing aids I shall soon need to order.”

      “Please, Douglas!  Just say hello and chat him up a bit and then let me know if he’s American or seems like he’s hurt himself or sick or if he’s drinking.  Oh, and if he swears a lot, because Doctor Sam really does do that more than… well, more than anyone I know, though he does try to be a little less sweary when he talks to me or… me.”

      “And I am to accomplish all of this without indicating in any way that I am aware of his name or that you’re playing Sam Spade and he’s the Maltese Falcon?”

      “Yes.  Especially the falcon bit because there hasn’t been a bird involved in the case yet.  Though it would be brilliant if there was!”

Douglas suffered through a moment of extreme mental kicking for abandoning his personal golden rule of ‘do unto others only until the point where it becomes tedious’ and unbuckled his seat belt.  For whatever reason, Arthur was being very adamant on this issue and it was rare that Arthur was adamant about _anything_ for more than three minutes.  Also… if Martin was keeping information from Arthur there was a possibility, however remote and ridiculous, that he was being _prevented_ from giving information to Arthur.  With a family that included one very enemy-prone detective and that Mycroft Holmes, apparent god of the universe, according to Arthur and somewhat supported by his own sources… Arthur’s request might not be as completely loony as it appeared.

      “Very well.  Consider this your Christmas, Birthday, Easter, Valentine’s Day, Halloween, It’s Tuesday! and Full Moon Frolic gift for the year.”

      “Hurray!  Thanks, Douglas.  This is going to be a big help!  Call me as soon as you have the information.  Bye!”

Douglas stared at the device in his hand and wondered if he concentrated hard enough could he turn it into some form of memory-wiping device so the entire transcript of the past ten minutes was forever erased from his brain.  Since that didn’t appear to be working, he stepped out of the car and marched smartly to the door, completely ignoring the significant pause before he actually started knocking.  And he would also not admit to pressing his ear against the door to listen to the flurry of activity inside that very much sounded like Martin running in circles panicking.  That the second voice seemed to be telling Martin to ‘calm the fuck down you fucking little hysteric’ lent credence to Arthur’s hypothesis on the identity of the mystery guest.

Before Douglas could knock again, the door flew open and he was greeted with Martin’s frantically-smiling face, which twisted into a mass of nervous confusion and terror seeing who was doing the knocking.

      “Ah, Martin.  I thought I recognized your luxury vehicle motoring through our lovely streets.  New digs?”

      “Uh… Douglas.  Hello.  Nice to… why are you here?”

      “As always Sir is a gracious and scintillating host.  For your information, I was ensuring a very lovely young nurse with a very unhappy car made it to work on time and imagine my surprise when I spied Captain Crieff’s second command vehicle driving away from the end of my enjoyable afternoon.  May I come in?”

      “NO!”

Dear lord, not again.

      “Oh, something going on in there?  Something you perhaps don’t want me to know about?  Really, Martin, that was poorly played.  You know exactly how this is going to end, don’t you?”

      “It’s… it’s not that, I just… I have company already, you see, and…”

      “Really?  Let me think.  The only person whom you might possibly convince to visit you for any reason other than the giving away of free money is Arthur and I most certainly do not hear Arthur and his typical cacophonous chaos providing the soundtrack to your enchanting evening.  Therefore, your so-called company is not our steward.  That leaves…oh, Martin… say it isn’t so…”

The highly disappointed tone to Douglas’s voice put Martin on even higher alert.

      “What?  What’s wrong!”

      “And you… an engaged man.  I am truly disappointed in you, Martin.  Here I believed you were an honorable man, deeply in love with his fiancé, but no…”

      “What!  No!  There’s no ‘no,’ there’s only a yes!  No, wait… I’m not sure that’s better…”

      “Arthur is going to be devastated.  Horribly and shatteringly devastated.  Have no fear, however, for I shall make certain his engagement bangle is given a very good home away from his grieving eyes.”

      “You stay away from his engagement bracelet!  And… I’m not… how can you believe I’d do anything… I love Arthur!  There’s no… shenanigans going on in here!”

      “Oh good, then you won’t mind if I pop in for a chat.”

Douglas pushed past a sputtering Martin and followed the smell of cheap food and the crackle of a fire, only to find himself facing someone who… ah.  Arthur did not mention that his quarry was a member of Holmes family.  There was no mistaking one of that lot for love nor money…

__________

      “MYCROFT!  GREG! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!  Oh, and Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson are here.  MR. SHERLOCK!  DOCTOR WATSON!  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

      “I think Arthur’s excited about something.”

      “My dear Gregory, you are a master of deduction.”

      “I think you’re rubbing off on me.”

      “No, dearest Detective Inspector.  That is what will happen later.”

      “Oh my god, John, I told you returning here would bring nothing but gross disappointment and stomach upset.  I am already proven correct.”

      “Mycroft, don’t use sexy talk in front of your brother.  Sherlock, go find some ear plugs because Mycroft never listens to me.  Now, Arthur… you look like you’re going to explode.”

      “I just might.”

      “Would you care to share the reason why?”

Arthur stood there trembling with excitement and seemed frozen in place until Lestrade shared a look with John and snapped his fingers to get Arthur’s attention.

      “Arthur… is there something you want to tell us?”

      “That would be yes!  And no!”

      “Unfortunately, my dear, I cannot award you praise for your interrogation skills.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  And you can forget about _later on_ for that.  Just to be clear and unsully my good name, I believe that Arthur is telling us he _has_ something to tell us but either can’t, because it’s a secret, or would rather not, because it’s a surprise.”

      “BRILLIANT!  Greg is the best detective ever!”

Sherlock’s volcanic snort shook the room and John maneuvered him to a chair to have a little rest.

      “So which one is it, lad?  Can’t keep an old cop waiting on an issue as important as this.”

      “Well, it’s a bit of both, actually.  It’s a secret because I don’t know for certain yet what I’m excited about and it’s a surprise because you don’t either!”

      “Oh for heaven’s sake.  Arthur, are you listening?”

      “Yes, Mr. Sherlock, I most certainly am.”

      “Very good.  Now, in as few words as possible… yes, you may consider it a game, before you ask… tell us what you can about the cause of your celebration.”

      “Brilliant!  Yes, that’s what we should be doing – celebrating!  With cake and balloons and music… I’m going to get started on that right away and…”

      “Arthur…”

      “Yes, Mr. Sherlock?”

      “As few words as possible.  You have already lost this round.”

      “Oh no!  But, you’re right.  I did get a bit wordy there.  Ok…”

Everyone watched as Arthur thought very hard and counted on his fingers over and over again, until he smiled broadly and did a little dance.

      “I think I’m ready.  Can I have another go?”

Sherlock waved in that particularly irritated manner that Arthur thought was actually very cute and took it as a signal for yes.

      “Ok… I’ve got a clue.  Or a lead.  I’m not sure actually what’s the difference between the two, actually, but I’ve got one of them!  Or both.  Maybe you can tell _me_ when I can tell _you_.”

The room went from quiet to deadly still and, sensing no one else was going to speak up, John jumped in to keep pulling information out of Arthur.

      “A clue?  Is this… Arthur, is this about Sam?”

      “I think that maybe it is, yes.”

That admission propelled Sherlock out of his chair and face to face with the now wide-eyed steward.

      “How on Earth did you get a lead sitting here minding your bottle collection?”

      “Can that be part of the surprise?”

Sherlock’s NO! was drowned out by John’s YES!, even though John had to suffer some very cutting eyes from Mycroft and Lestrade as punishment.

      “Of course it can, Arthur.  I suspect you’re not sure if your lead is going to… well, lead anywhere, so you’d rather not say anything until you know for certain.  Is that right?”

      “Yes!  That’s _exactly_ right.  But, as soon as I know, I promise to tell everyone!”

      “That’s fine.  We can wait a bit longer to hear the news.  Sherlock, stop circling Arthur like you’re a vulture waiting for his death and sit down.  This might take awhile.  Arthur, can you at least tell us what it is we’re actually waiting for?”

      “Oh, a phone call.”

      “And you’ve got your phone with you?”

Arthur dug into his pocket and held his phone up like a trophy.

      “Good job.  How about you hold onto to that while Greg calls up a film and we can all relax and watch that while waiting for your call.  How does that sound?”

      “That sounds brilliant!   Greg, can we watch a funny movie?”

      “Absolutely.  Mycroft, why don’t you and Sherlock go and get us something to snack on while we decide what to watch.”

Mycroft caught his lover’s eye and understood his message.

      “An excellent suggestion.  Sherlock, come with me.”

      “WAIT!  I am in charge of this investigation and I am not going to sit here not knowing what is going on!  I am entitled to full disclosure on all matters concerning the case!”

      “But why?  You don’t always tell me what you’re doing, Mr. Sherlock, and I don’t get upset or make you ruin the surprise.”

Sherlock scowled and thrust his hands into his pockets, ignoring John’s laughter.

      “Yeah, Sherlock… you _never_ want to spoil the surprise when _we’re_ on a case, so why should poor Arthur?”

With Sherlock on the verge of an epic sulk, Mycroft tapped his brother on the shoulder and beckoned him when he deigned to look up.

      “Let us gather some refreshment for our merry band to further our enjoyment of our film and, perhaps, occupy your attention so your mind is not entirely consumed by the flickering flames of envy at Arthur’s grand news.”

Sherlock pouted mightily and seemed to weld himself further to his spot on the floor.

      “I am no one’s maid.”

      “But you would look positively striking in a uniform. And I do recall a time you found yourself clad in a very short skirt and…”

      “Mycroft, come with me.”

Sherlock stormed out of the room past three sets of very curious eyes and Mycroft only chuckled softly as he followed the hastily departing figure.  Once they were out of earshot of the others, Sherlock whirled on his brother and fixed him with a ferocious glare.

      “Is this your doing?”

      “Me?  Heaven’s no.  I was as startled as you by Arthur’s revelation.  However, I also have cultivated the skill of patience so I am not as debilitated by the dear boy’s desire for surprise as are you.”

      “If this is, though I cannot imagine how, valuable information, it could be time sensitive and…”

      “And how likely do you think that to be?  If Arthur is somehow pursuing a clue to Sherrinford’s whereabouts, I doubt it is the sort of clue that is of imminent and limited benefit.  Most likely he made an inquiry based on some interpretation of a piece of your conversations today and is awaiting an answer to his question.”

      “You do not think this shall prove fruitful.”

      “I admit that I doubt it could be, given the fact that he has been here all evening, however, I have learned that one is best served not placing too much faith on predictions made for situations concerning Arthur.”

      “On that I must agree.  Very well, I shall let him enjoy his game, since it appears to be giving him a great deal of pleasure.”

      “That is good of you, Sherlock.  It is not often, I feel, that dear Arthur finds himself in such a position; it is a kindness to allow him to enjoy it fully.  And it shall lessen the deflation when he finds his efforts have come to naught.”

      “I will, of course, provide support and commiseration.”

Sherlock’s very determined look was both comical and heartwarming and Mycroft took the moment to rejoice in how very far Sherlock had come under the influence of such stalwart sources of nurturing.  Himself certainly _not_ included.

      “It shall be greatly appreciated, I have no doubt.  Now, onwards to prepare our feast.”

      “I reiterate my lack of employment as your servant.”

      “And I again give thanks for that fact, however, it is not beyond your capabilities to open a few packages and prepare a pretty presentation of Arthur’s favorite snack foods while I attend to the beverages.”

      “I shall not include the… things… that nearly glow orange and coat your fingers with thick clumps of repugnantly-persistent tangerine sediment.”

      “Ah, yes, those may be omitted.  I do not relish another instance of finding kumquat-colored fingerprints on my trousers.”

      “Yours of Lestrade’s?”

      “I shall leave that to your imagination.”

__________

      “Oh!  Yes… Douglas… this is um… well, you could say this is… that is to say, let me introduce…”

      “Christ almightly, Martin, you suck at everything.  Hi, name’s Sam, family friend of good ol’ Martin over there.  You must be Douglas Richardson.  That one’s told me a lot about you and some of it was actually flattering, so come on in.  Can I get you a drink?”

And two more points in Arthur’s favor – definitely American and the beer bottle the man was using to punctuate his conversation seemed to be one of a set of triplets.  Oh, and his name was _Sam_.

      “I must decline, unfortunately; however, I would gladly accept a nice cup of coffee which Martin shall be delighted to make.  Won’t you, Martin.”

And Martin was not so clueless to realize that was not a question.

      “No.”

      “My, Sir is especially testy tonight.  I see the strain of entertaining has taken its toll.  Pity poor Arthur and his grand plans for a lively social life once you are conjugally joined.  He shall be sorely disappointed sitting here lonely every night without even a cup of hot coffee for company.”

Martin groaned loudly and stormed off into the kitchen, more to simply get away from the potential firestorm about to erupt than to actually give Douglas any satisfaction.

      “Well, that got Pippi Longstocking out of here fast.  Good going there, Douglas.  Kid needs a swat now and then and since actually paddling his ass borders on paedophilia for _so_ many reasons, it’s nice to see someone who can do it efficiently and at a safe distance.”

Well, apparently not all the Holmes family were entirely humorless and tight-arsed.  This colonial branch of the Holmes Empire was becoming quite interesting.

      “Martin is a good lad, but he _does_ need a bit more seasoning.”

      “Pile on the pepper.  Speaking of, what is it with you guys and the complete lack of snap in the food arena.  Maybe that’s how I’ll make my fortune, selling little survival kits for us poor US boys so we can tolerate what’s dropped on our plates when we’re billeted on this side of the Atlantic.  Seriously, do they even sell cayenne over here?  And the hot mustard with my Chinese the other day was shameful.  Not one tear on this handsome face and that’s criminal.”

Oh yes, very interesting…

      “Yes, we do tend to prefer our food to go down passively, rather than engage in a fight to the death with our mouths, but I must agree on the subject of the local cuisine, in principle.  There are but a few establishments which are privileged to know me as a customer, but I must admit they do a passable job of tantalizing the palate.”

      “Really?  Care to share?  I’m here for a few more days and I’d rather get some enjoyment out of them than continuing to expire from a nasty case of blandus foodus. I’m getting so desperate I almost told Martin to cook for me.”

      “Good lord, you _are_ in dire straits.  Well, for a fellow gastronome, I shall happily share the wealth of my experience.  Though, I must say, you seem the type to wield a mean saucier yourself.”

      “Me?  Yeah, I can do myself proud in the kitchen, but… well, I’ve been under the weather lately and there is nothing more heartbreaking than staring at a plate of disgust that your own hands served up.”

      “Truly, none can disappoint us so greatly as ourselves.”

      “I like you, Douglas.  You’ve got your head screwed on straight.”

      “WHAT!  NO!  There shall be no liking between either of you!”

      “Hark?  Do I hear the dulcet tones of the domesticated Crieff as it feathers its new nest?”

Martin stomped further into the room and pressed the cup of coffee into the First Officer’s hands.

      “Shut it, Douglas.  Drink your coffee and leave.  Sam… you just sit there and be quiet.”

      “HA!  Isn’t he cute when he’s all red-faced like that?”

      “And this is by no means Sir’s most vibrant shade of cherry.  Only a few more days here, you say?  Perhaps you shall be sufficiently fortunate to witness our Captain in his most florid fluster.”

      “Tell you what, stop back for dinner tomorrow, your choice of take-out, and let’s get the safari started.”

      “I’d be delighted.”

      “NO!”

      “There it goes again… those wild Crieff’s do cause a ruckus don’t they?  I think it likes this little nest.  Perfect for sharing with a mate, raising a chick…”

      “I am not poultry!”

      “Of course not, Captain.  And we promise to completely avoid chicken tomorrow night in respect to your avowed non-lineage.”

Martin glared at Douglas and Sam’s grinning faces and tried not to pull out fistfuls of his hair.  Only he would have luck so bad as to be in a room with the two most irritating people in the world.  Throw in Sherlock and he might become suicidal.

__________

An hour later, Douglas strolled to his car in a surprisingly good mood.  What an agreeable person was this Sam, setting aside Arthur’s ridiculous case and the obvious attempt by the man to hide who he really was.  A fascinating person to be related to Martin and that murder of crows in London.  Sharp witted, a robust sense of humor, a very practical view towards the fair trade of goods across arbitrarily-set borders… he was actually looking forward to returning for another visit.  There were surprisingly few persons in Fitton with whom he could carry on any semblance of intelligent conversation and who appreciated the finer things in life such as sushi, women, good music and expensive… oh, expensive anything.

The only troubling aspect was a decided and visible discomfort when Sam moved quickly, indicating some form of injury or illness.  While he could not report on any oozing, that was Arthur’s last criterion satisfied.  Any issue involving oozing could not mean anything pleasant, though, and it was with some concern that Douglas got into his car and drove home where he placed his call to Arthur.

      “Well? Is it him?”

      “Arthur, that is _not_ your customary ebullient greeting.  I am quite put out by your lack of enthusiasm.”

      “Oh, sorry.  But… well, is it?”

      “Hmmm… let me see.  I seem to have a rather hazy memory at the moment…”

      “I can sing a song if that helps.”

      “Actually, the threat is sufficient.  If I had to make a statement for the record, then I would have to say that yes, the person I spoke to was your quarry.  Now, may I know exactly it is to whom I have been conversing for the past hour?”

      “Um…. no?”

      “Arthur…”

      “I don’t know if I can tell you, really.  I’m not trying to be mean.”

      “Well, it doesn’t matter.  For your information, I already know.”

      “WHAT!  Wait… I know what you’re doing.  You’re trying to trick me, but it won’t work.”

      “Tell me, is there a particular reason he has such a common moniker like ‘Sam,’ unlike the others of his blood.  Mycroft.  And Sherlock.”

      “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!  You do know!”

      “And you dared to doubt.  Silly Arthur, you should know well enough by now that nothing can hide from the eagle eye of Douglas Richardson.  Now, begin with the details.”

      “Umm… no?”

      “This is becoming ridiculous.”

      “But, I’ll ask and if I can, I’ll tell you just as soon as possible.  If I’m able.”

      “Oh fine.  But Arthur… you know there is some chance that Carolyn might call me and I would hate to have to mention this little incident.  You _know_ how she would take to wondering if you had possibly undertaken something dangerous.”

      “But… I’m not.”

      “Well, I can’t say that for certain, now can I?”

      “What do you want?”

      “Well, there is a good bit of tidying that needs to be done around my house…”

      “For how long?”

      “A month.”

      “A month!”

      “That’s more than fair for buying my silence on an issue of this importance.  And, I’ll even agree that you only have to drop by once a week. Perhaps twice if I’m expecting a romantic evening.”

      “Well, ok.  So long as you promise.”

      “I absolutely promise not to discourse on any of my concerns or suspicions with Carolyn, so long as my floors are shiny and my shirts are freshly laundered.”

      “Laundry!”

      “Oh, did I forget to mention that?  Silly me.  Well, goodbye, Arthur.  I’ll leave the mop out for you when you visit.  Toodle-oo.”

Arthur listened for a second to the silence on the other end of the line and slowly turned to look at the highly anxious faces starting at him and suddenly felt a huge rush of excitement well up in him like a big bubble that was just about ready to burst.  He’d solved the case!  Well, Douglas solved the case, but Douglas didn’t even know there was a case so they both solved it and he absolutely was part of ‘both’ so he could say he solved the case!  Of course, now there was the mystery of why _Skip_ didn’t solve the case, but that wasn’t important now… they’d found Doctor Sam!

      “Mycroft?”

      “Yes, Arthur?”

      “Do you have… can you have the helicopter ready to go?”

Mycroft tried to gather what he could from the tornado of emotions currently swirling wildly on the Arthur’s face and gave up quickly since he stood no chance of piercing the enigma of Arthur’s current state of mind. 

      “Of course.  May I know the reason?”

      “I know where Doctor Sam is.”

Even Lestrade tried to join in the mass leap-to-the-feet and it was only Mycroft’s quick action that kept his partner in his bed.

      “WHAT!  Arthur, are you quite certain about this?”

      “I am, Mr. Sherlock!  My clue was a good clue!  I know where Doctor Sam is!”

      “Very well.  John, pack my bag.  I should only be in Scotland a day or so…”

      “Well… that’s not exactly where we’re going.”

Sherlock turned and glared at Arthur who suddenly became even more aware of all the attention focused on him.

      “Though we can if you want to.  I’d really like to go to Scotland, actually.  I could look for places to take Skip when we go on our holiday.”

Mycroft had tried counting to ten.  Then taking deep breaths.  He had now moved on to stroking Lestrade’s hair as a method of keeping calm and, for the life of him, he had no idea why he was becoming so agitated.

      “Arthur, dear boy, if you do not provide us with your destination, I cannot ensure your transportation is suitably prepared.”

      “Oh!  Right!  Yes.  That’s very important, actually.  Skip is _very_ careful about knowing all the details of our trips so he can plan everything properly down to the last detail.  Unfortunately, sometimes we find details that just sort of appear like magic.  Which I’m actually not convinced isn’t the case.  I was watching Bugs Bunny once and they had these cute little people called gremlins and…”

      “Destination, Arthur!”

      “Yes!  Sorry, Mycroft.  Mr. Sherlock, Greg, Doctor Watson, Mycroft… Doctor Sam is in… Fitton!”

As three men wondered when they’d started hallucinating, one burst out laughing and nearly had to be sat on to stay firmly in his bed.

      “Really, my dear, have you fallen under some form of spell?”

      “Fitton!  It’s perfect!  Come on, Mycroft… you have to admire Sam’s sense of humor.”

No, Mycroft had to admire nothing.  But he would concede that it was a bold play, and a highly unexpected one.

      “I shall save my admiration for someone more deserving of the sentiment.  Sherlock, is it your intention to pursue this?”

Actually, now that he was faced with the possibility, Sherlock was not as certain as he had been.  The thrill of the chase and the victory of solving the problem was fading and the underlying reason for this investigation was breaking out of the box into which he’d placed it to keep it from becoming a distraction.  They would be traveling to Fitton for him to speak with Sherrinford and… he had absolutely no idea what to say.

      “Naturally.  I did not undertake this case for the purpose of abandoning it once the objective had been reached.”

      “Very well… I shall have a helicopter made ready.  I assume you do wish to depart tonight.”

Sherlock looked at Arthur who was bouncing foot to foot and set aside his original thought to wait until morning.

      “Yes.  Arthur, we shall leave shortly.  Gather whatever you want to bring with you.”

      “Right!  I’ll only need five minutes.  No!  Make that ten. I need to pack our snacks bags for the trip, too.”

Arthur darted out of the room and Sherlock hesitated only a second before rushing after him to make sure Arthur’s ten minutes didn’t grow like an invasive weed.  In their wake, John, Mycroft and Lestrade took a minute to continue processing the information and, soon, John was smiling just as widely as his patient and tossed a biscuit over to Lestrade who caught it and passed it to Mycroft who began to chew on his gift, though he was not fully aware exactly on what he was chewing.

      “Once a Holmes, always a Holmes.  Sam really does know how to stir the pot, doesn’t he?”

      “Frankly, John, I think it’s his life’s blood.  How do you think Arthur got on his trail?”

      “I was actually afraid to ask.  We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.  In very colorful terms.”

      “Mycroft, how you doing, love?  Do you… think it might be a good idea for you to go with them?”

No, that would certainly not be a good idea.  Or perhaps it would.  In truth, Mycroft had held out great hope that this would all fade away as if it had been an upsetting dream and he would never have to think further on the issue. But now… at least he could still hold out hope that Sherrinford would have no interest in attempting a discussion on their issues and he could settle back into his peaceful and contented life.  A life that had no nasty pseudo-American thorns stabbing into his side.  If that was what he truly wanted, that is…

      “No.  Sherlock and Arthur are conducting the investigation and they should be allowed to continue on alone until such time as they have resolution to their concerns.  Then… depending on the outcome… I shall reconsider matters.”

Lestrade shared a knowing look with John and ran a hand along Mycroft’s arm.

      “That sounds like a good plan.  Hey, shouldn’t you be calling for that chopper?”

      “Ah… you are quite correct.  Pardon me a moment while I make arrangements.”

Mycroft stepped out of Lestrade’s room, leaving John and the Detective Inspector alone.

      “What do you think, John?”

      “He’s not even doing a good job masking his feelings, is he?”

      “Not at all.  Mycroft has no idea what he wants right now and I can’t say I blame him.  Maybe Sherlock can piece some things together and… broker some conversation that will actually be productive.  And, no, I cannot believe I just said that.”

      “Well, he’ll have Arthur for help, so I think there’s hope.”

      “I’m glad for that, actually.  I think that, no matter the outcome, Mycroft needs one good dust up with his brother.”

      “I was thinking the same thing.  Think we can be ringside for that one?”

      “I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

      “Yeah, I do, too.”

__________

Mycroft was just finishing arranging for the helicopter and doing a bit of detective work of his own when Sherlock and Arthur arrived in the sitting room, Sherlock with a small overnight bag and Arthur with several steamer trunks worth of what, Mycroft truly did not want to know.

      “Arthur, do you have any idea why Martin would be lodging with Sherrinford and fail to inform us?”

Sherlock nearly dropped his jaw in shock and wasn’t sure who to glare at harder, Mycroft or Arthur.

      “Well, no.  No, I don’t and I’ve been thinking about that with every bit of my brain.  I guess I’ll find out, though.”

      “Are you two actually saying that Sherrinford is staying at Martin’s temporary house?  With Martin?”

      “It appears so, Sherlock.  And… my own staff was fully aware of the fact, though, perhaps, not all of the relevant details.  Again, Sherrinford has outdone himself with the unexpected.”

      “Arthur, I expect you to handle your fiancé while I deal with Sherrinford.”

      “Oh, do I have to be stern?  I really would rather not because it gives me a little headache, but I will if you think it’s a good idea.”

      “I shall leave the degree of severity of your conversation to you.  But… yes.  Is our transportation ready?”

Mycroft saw the tiny flicker of unease in his brother’s eyes and almost reconsidered joining them.  For all of his concerns about Sherrinford, he could not forget that Sherlock was in his own state of mental disarray over the situation.

      “Yes, and the car is waiting, also.  I shall make your goodbyes to John and Gregory.”

Arthur’s ‘hurray!’ echoed through the house as he ran towards the waiting car and Mycroft sincerely hoped that Arthur would come back to London for a proper goodbye before he returned home for good.

      “Do watch out for him, Sherlock.”

      “I am offended that you feel the need to say that.”

      “Oh, merely a parting pleasantry.  I would have told him to watch out for you if he had not raced off like a greyhound.  Speaking of which, you should follow or you might find yourself left behind.”

With a parting scowl, Sherlock stalked out of the house and Mycroft sent along a mental ‘good luck’ to both his younger brothers.  He suspected it might be sorely needed.


	8. Chapter 8

It took a truly lethal glare by Sherlock to stop Arthur asking the helicopter pilot to perform an aerial acrobatics show, but the detective soothed the wound by digging into Arthur’s snacks bag and handing the steward a biscuit package that Arthur accepted happily.  In truth, what Sherlock wanted most was at least a modicum of peace so he could think.  Sherrinford was in Fitton.  _Fitton_.  That was an intentional gauntlet he’d thrown down and Sherlock had failed to pick it up.  In fact, he was preparing to leave to follow leads that, in hindsight, were likely fabricated for just that purpose.  His brother had laid a false trail; had _intended_ to disguise his whereabouts.  The indication was that Sherrinford actively attempted to avoid discovery.  He did not wish to be found.  Not that he had believed any differently, however, Sherrinford had anticipated he would be chased and took steps to elude their efforts.

Or had he?  His brother could have fled to any corner of the globe and he chose Fitton.  Admittedly, it was an _effective_ choice because it played perfectly into the trite cliché of hiding in plain sight, but it was an intriguing choice in any case.  Mycroft had men in the area, not to mention Arthur and Martin, whose departure from London was fairly predictable given the circumstances of his brother’s exiling.  The potential for being found out was unacceptably high for someone desiring to keep their location secret.  There was a dichotomy in laying a false trail and hiding in a potentially-discoverable site that required a substantial amount of reflection and there was little time to do it.

Sherlock turned the situation over and over in his mind, slowly drawing away from the distractions of the world outside his skull until Arthur’s tugging on his sleeve brought him back into present.

      “We’re here!”

      “So we are and, of course, Mycroft has arranged a car for us.”

The large black sedan sat idling a safe distance from the helicopter and the outline of a driver was clearly visible.

      “Well, that’s a good thing because my car’s at home and you don’t have a car, so we would have had to walk to Skip and Doctor’s Sam’s house and that might get a bit tiring carrying all the luggage.”

      “Yes, stumbling along the roadside like a pair of tramps is not the presentation I would like to make.”

      “Good, because I’m actually a little tired and I might have to have a lie down on the way and when you see someone lying down next to the road they’re usually a bit drunk and I don’t want people thinking I’m a bit drunk when I’m actually just tired and my snacks are too heavy.”

      “Yes, that would be undignified.  But, Arthur…”

Arthur cocked his head at the tone in Sherlock’s voice, but waited patiently for the detective to speak again.

      “Along those lines… it _is_ rather late.  I have observed that Martin keeps nearly a child’s bedtime schedule and you have already expressed fatigue.  Perhaps it would be a wiser course of action to postpone a confrontation until tomorrow.  Given that Sherrinford is excitable at the best of times, I suspect his temper would be translucently thin at this hour of the night, given our arrival for a discussion of serious nature.”

      “Oh.  You may be right.  Skip does like a good night’s sleep and Doctor Sam _needs_ a good  night’s sleep and he probably won’t get that because I know he’s going to be upset when he sees us, even though I’m going to give him a big hug and tell him how happy I am we found him.  Maybe… we should wait and stop in tomorrow, instead?  I _am_ very anxious to see Skip, but I do want him to be happy and not fussy because he’s tired and had to spend the whole day with Doctor Sam, and then Douglas, which I think might have been a little hard on Skip.”

Actually, Sherlock was entirely certain his cousin was nearly at the point of racing stark raving mad through the streets, but a pilot had to be capable of managing painful and infuriating situations, so the practice would do him good.

      “Then tomorrow it is.  We shall make an early start of it, though.”

      “Yes!  After breakfast, of course.”

      “Actually, I was thinking…”

      “I’ll make pancakes.”

      “After breakfast will be fine.”

__________

Despite Arthur’s hopes, Martin had a difficult time falling asleep and woke as fussy and cranky as any sleep-deprived toddler.  It took time the night before to calm down from Douglas’s ambush and its truly deflating aftermath.  Sam was bad enough… Douglas was bad enough… Sam _and_ Douglas was a living nightmare.  And, how joyous, he had to suffer through it again tonight.  Maybe he could go out for a film or something, instead.  Spend the evening at Carolyn’s while the trolls sat here banging their rocks and chewing on goat bones.  It was already going to be painfully hard to talk to Arthur today on the video equipment and, once more, lie to his virtual face, something that burned a hole in his stomach and left a raging hurt of shame and guilt every time he had to do it.  This was not the right way to treat the man you loved, no matter how good the intentions.  He had promised Sam time, but he’d said that _he_ was the one to decide how much time it would be and that value was dwindling quickly.  Another few days for Arthur to race around sniffing out clues and that was it.  That was more than sufficient an amount of time for their case and then he could tell the truth and get this nonsense over and done with.

      “Martin!  Up and at ‘em.  Coffee’s not getting any hotter!”

What was this?  One of those ridiculous American cattle ranches?  A quick look at the time said it was very close to ungodly o’clock and he’d only gotten to sleep at half past dropping dead.  Just for that Sam lost a whole day of in-hiding time.  Insufferable man.

      “Martin!  I _will_ be eating your food if you don’t get your ass out of bed.”

Food?  That, at least, sounded appealing, although he suffered a twinge of nostalgia knowing whatever landed on his plate would not be blessed by Arthur’s special touch.  Crawling out from under the blankets, Martin threw on whatever his hands landed on first and dragged himself into the kitchen where Sam was preparing breakfast.  It actually smelled good, which surprised the pilot, but it was also obvious that the work was difficult for the doctor and Martin stepped in to assist.

      “Just go sit down, boy.  I’ve got this.”

      “I’d like my eggs without bodily ooze, thank you, so I’ll give you a hand.”

      “Fair enough.  Thought I’d cook this morning so I don’t have to suffer your withering scorn over my dietary preferences again.  It was easier than burying you up to you neck in the back yard and smearing blenderized worms on your face so the birds peck you to death.”

      “I’m not worried because if I tell Arthur you even mentioned putting worms in a blender, he’ll sit you down for a little talk that you won’t soon forget.”

      “Shit.  You’re right.  Didn’t think about that.  Broke my own rule of never laying out your fiendish scheme to your opponent in advance, too.  I’m getting old and sad.”

      “But you still make good eggs.”

Martin took another spoonful out of the pan before dividing the bounty between two plates, which Sam followed with sausages and toast, then set them on the table next to the coffee cups which Sam filled with coffee nearly as black as Arthur’s finest.  The two men took a seat at the table and dove in, stopping only when the first few bites were washed away by the coffee.

      “So, Skeeter… what’s on your agenda today?”

      “I’m not sure, actually.  Usually, if I’m not flying, I have something lined up to earn money, but I haven’t had a chance to do that for awhile.  Now that I think about it, I’m not sure how my last rent payment was made.  Or the utilities.  Probably Mycroft.”

      “No question, Mycroft.  He’s grown a mother-hen complex a mile wide.  It was definitely there when Sherlock was a baby, but it seems to have infested him like fucking kudzu.  Let him have his fun; poor stick-up-the-ass thing could use it.”

      “I don’t like it, having someone else pay my way.  It’s not right; I _am_ a grown man, you know.”

      “Well, you might not be wrong about that, but bending your neck when you need to or when it makes someone else happy isn’t a bad thing.  And you’re not one I worry about turning into a leech, so don’t feel bad if little bro picks up the rent bill for one month.  What is rent out here in the sticks anyway?  If you’re paying more than twenty bucks a month, you’re getting ripped off and I think he probably uses twenties for toilet paper anyway.  There, you cost him one square of booty wipe.”

      “Thank you for that lovely image.”

      “My pleasure.  So, if you don’t have any plans, you could take me to see that plane of yours.  I hear she’s a good old girl and I’m sure you love to show her off.”

Martin nearly squawked in surprise and felt a shudder of glee course through his body.

      “You… you want to see GERTI?”

      “Is that a problem?”

      “Yes.  I mean no!  No… not at all.  It’s just… no one has ever been interested in GERTI but me and Arthur.”

      “Other people’s problems aren’t my concern.  So, one tour of your plane.  You know, I actually got my pilot’s license a lot of years back.  That was fun.”

Martin choked on his coffee and stared bug-eyed at Sam.  The shudder of glee was nowhere to be found.

      “What!”

      “My coffee made you deaf.  Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

      “No… no no no no no… _you_ have a pilot’s license?”

      “What’s so surprising about that?  I just did it to see if I could, really.  Friend of mine in college was forever in danger of flunking out and his old man owned a flight school.  Traded flight lessons and flight time for tutoring services.  Junior graduated on time with a respectable transcript and I got a nice little piece of paper to stick in a drawer.  Ok, that’s not true… I _have_ gone through the motions to get cleared to fly a few times since then, which came in handy when I was doing my bit for the boys in uniform.  The chopper jockeys were always up for a good time and willing to let a capable and less-drunk-than-them individual take a turn at the stick, too.”

Martin, not for the first nor, undoubtedly, the last time hated the Holmes clan.

      “You… why is everything so _easy_ for you lot.”

Sam snorted loudly and leaned back in his chair.

      “Easy?  I’ll admit that there’s some smarts in the genetics, but that doesn’t mean things were easy for me.  Father left me a little help for the first few years, but not much else after that besides some cash for college, which _is_ a big deal, I’m not going to lie.  But, I had to pay my own way for everything else and, let me make something very clear to you… having smarts doesn’t lessen the workload you’ve got to shoulder to push through a degree, especially when you get to medical school.  I had to put in countless hours for that and hold a couple of jobs on top of it so I didn’t starve to death.  What little ‘free time’ I had… if I could find some way to spend it other than sitting around in front of the television, I took it.  And, the busier I stayed, the less I drank, so it was a two-pronged win.  Arthur gave me a little of your background, Martin, and I’m sorry for it, but don’t be angry at other people for their bits of luck.  You’ve got your own, if you think about, and I can name one specifically that I’d trade that pilot’s license for in a heartbeat.”

It hurt to bite your tongue, but Martin suffered it gladly because Sam was right.  Maybe Sam had caught a break in getting his flight training, but he’d also seen the worst thing in the world happen to him.  How much did his degrees or licenses or whatever matter when he’d lost the one thing that really made life worth living?

      “I see your point.  It’s just… fine, I can get a bit carried away sometimes, but it’s hard looking at Sherlock and Mycroft and Douglas and you and maybe just wishing that not everything was a such a struggle.  But everyone has their struggles, I suppose, and you’re right, I should put more effort into appreciating what I do have rather than worrying about what I don’t.  So yes, I’d be happy to show you around GERTI.  And the airfield.  And anything else you’d like to see in Fitton.  Not that there’s a lot to _see_ in Fitton, but we can take a tour anyway.”

      “Sounds good.  And Martin… no matter what you might believe, I think you’ve done a great job with your life.  You built a lot on what little you were given and you did it all on your own.  That’s something to be proud of.  And it’s very Holmes-like.  We don’t credit any victory we don’t make ourselves, so you’ve got a full score card by my tally.  And, even if they don’t say it, I know that goes for Dreadlock and Skinny, too.”

      “Oh… well… thank you.  That’s very kind.”

      “Which means you’ll let me take your plane up.”

      “It most certainly does not.”

      “I think you’ll find you’re wrong.”

      “I think you’ll find I’m not.”

      “Fine, you spoilsport.  I’ll get Douglas to toss me the keys.”

      “What!  No… you two are not going to take GERTI up for any reason whatsoever!”

      “Martin, our awesomeness should be spread as far as possible and that includes upwards.”

      “No!  I’m not letting GERTI be turned into some form of flying… men’s club!”

      ‘Now that’s a great idea!  Think of the money we could make!  I’m proud of you Martin, that’s definitely using your smarts.  I’m taking measurements during my tour.  For the retrofitting.”

      “I hate you.”

      “That’s just another form of love.  Hotter, sexier love, too.”

      “You’re not allowed to say another word all day.”

      “Well, that’s boring.”

      “Cope.”

__________

      “Breakfast, Mr. Sherlock!  Lots of tasty breakfast because we have a big day ahead of us.”

Sherlock looked up from Carolyn’s sofa and found it hard to suppress a smile with Arthur’s pyjama-clad form grinning at him from the doorway to the kitchen.

      “Very well, I am suffering a stagnation of thought, in any case.”

      “Oh, that sounds painful.”

      “It is.”

      “Well, I’ve got just the thing then.  Toblerone pancakes and coffee and strawberry aubergines, though I didn’t have any fresh strawberries, so I had to use jam instead, which made it sweeter than normal, but you can’t go wrong with sweeter!  Oh, and some nice bacon, all crispy and crumbly to sprinkle on porridge.  Which I also made so you had something to crumble your bacon over.”

      “Acceptable.”

Sherlock unfurled himself and followed Arthur, sitting down at the kitchen table, where the morning feast had been laid out.

      “Did you sleep at all, Mr. Sherlock?  I did a very little just when I laid down, but then I woke up and no matter how many of my animal friends I put in the bed with me, I just couldn’t go back to sleep.  So I watched a movie on my computer instead.  Actually, a few movies.  I peeked downstairs once or twice, but you were in that trance you go into and I know better than to interrupt you when you’re in your thinking trance.  You might swallow your tongue or something, though how that happens is quite beyond me since it’s sort of attached to your mouth and how can you swallow something that’s actually attached?  Unless it’s a chip fastened to a string…”

      “Yes, very considerate of you.”

      “Thanks!  Though I should probably be practicing being stern, because I may have to be stern with Skip and it’ll probably go easier for me if I get some practice in first because I really don’t like being stern with anybody, let alone Skip!”

      “I assure you that if the need arises, you will perform most admirably.”   

      “Oh… I hope so.  Or I don’t hope so.  It’s very strange to want to do something well, but not do something well at the same time.  What about you, Mr. Sherlock?  Are you going to be stern with Doctor Sam?  I mean… I can understand it if you are, but remember that he was hurt and Douglas said Skip brought Doctor Sam to the A&E, so that means he’s still hurt and you can’t be stern with someone who’s hurt or sick.  It’s not allowed.”

      “John is often stern with me when I’ve been hurt.”

      “Was it for a case?”

      “Yes.”

      “Did… well, did you get hurt because you did something slightly rash?  I only ask because Doctor Watson says you do that a lot.”

      “We are no longer talking about John.”

      “Oh… ok.  But are you?”

      “Am I what?”

      “Going to be stern with Doctor Sam.”

Not a question for which Sherlock had a clear answer.

      “At this time, I cannot say for certain.”

      “Well, that makes sense.  I suppose it will depend on what he has to say.  And what you have to say, which will make a difference in what he says, which will make a difference in what _you_ say… whew!  We haven’t even finished breakfast and I’m already ready for a nice lie in.”

      “There shall be sufficient time for that after we have our meeting.  Do you plan on remaining in Fitton or shall you return with me to London at the conclusion of this portion of the investigation?”

      “I hadn’t thought about that.  I suppose… I suppose I’ll have to decide that after you talk to Doctor Sam.  Doctor Sam may need my help if he gets upset and if he stays in Fitton, then I’d have to stay in Fitton to help, but if he goes back to London then that’s where I’d have to go.  I think it’s my duty as a part-time doctor’s assistant to be as much help as I can and I suppose that means going where the person I need to help is going.”

      “There is, of course, the possibility that Sherrinford shall again take flight to an unknown location.”

      “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that, either.  I know!  Call Mycroft and tell him to send us one of those tracking things they show on the telly that you swallow and people can follow you.  I’ll make Doctor Sam a little snack and tuck it inside so when he swallows it we’ll be able to know where he goes!”

In truth, it wasn’t a bad idea, however, Sherlock had significant doubts that Mycroft would be willing to expend the equipment to track Sherrinford’s activities.  He was not even sure that Mycroft cared that they knew Sherrinford’s whereabouts in the first place.

      “Sherrinford is not a man without some power of observation.  I think he would detect your ruse.”

      “Hmmm… you might be right.  I’ll have to think things through a bit more.”

      “You do that.  And Arthur…”

      “Yes?”

      “Chocolate syrup?”

      “Oh!  Yes.  It should be nice and warm now.  And, I know… don’t tell Doctor Watson.”

      “Excellent.”

__________

Martin took a quick shower, then changed into fresh clothes, feeling only a small bit strange preparing to visit GERTI without his uniform.  Looking around the bedroom as he dressed, Martin had to admit it was a very pleasant space, even with Sam and Douglas’s teasing.  Nice sunny rooms with large windows, a substantial tub and shower, fireplace, very functional kitchen, a big and private yard that backed onto open land that he could tell would have flowers in the spring and there were lots of trees for birds… Arthur would fall in love with a house like this.  It would be the ‘little house’ he went on and on about, the one his fiance dreamed they would find and live in forever.  Well, at least he knew what to look for now.  Maybe it wouldn’t be this nice or in quite as lovely a part of Fitton, but it would be decent and it would be theirs and that was all that mattered.

As Martin was walking back into the kitchen, dodging very efficiently the spoon hurled at him by his impatient nemesis, he suffered his second bout of panic in two days when the doorbell sounded, followed by a very energetic bout of knocking.

      “What!  Who can that be?”

      “Let me put on my psychic hat.  I predict that you will know the answer as soon as you open the door.”

      “Ha ha.  You’re lucky you’re old.  People take pity on the old and laugh at their jokes, even when they’re not funny, which is all the time.”

Another ring and this time the knocking sounded vaguely like a song Martin half-remembered.

      “Go answer the fucking door.  It’s probably the poor bastards Mycroft’s got stationed out here doing one of their checks or bringing you some toys or something.  Could be the liquor hut, too.  I haven’t called them today, so they might be making a preemptive strike.”

Martin just shook his head and trudged to the door and flung it open, only to be assaulted by a large wall of balloons.  The next ten seconds was devoted to trying to shove the balloons out of his way and preventing them from encroaching further into the house, which they were doing with distressingly laudable success.

      “I told you this was a ridiculous plan.”

Sherlock?

      “But why, Mr. Sherlock?  Everyone loves balloons so if you think someone might get a bit upset for some reason, say you have to be a bit stern with them, you give them balloons so they brighten right up!”

Arthur? Martin thrust his arm through the balloon attack in the direction of his fiancé’s voice, dragging the body he grabbed forward until Arthur’s beaming face burst into view, as happy as the balloons that were framing it.

      “Hi, Skip!  Surprise!”

Martin felt that abject panic was quite justified at this point and was about to embark on a full round of it when Arthur surged forward, propelled by a solid push by Sherlock and landed in his arms.

      “Arthur, love... I don’t think...”

      “That much is evident.  Now, where is Sherrinford?”

Martin was absolutely sure he’d stepped on a mouse because that inhuman squeak certainly did not come from him, even if Sherlock was glaring at him like it was.

      “I have… I have no idea…”

The detective snorted loudly and pushed by the nearly dumbstruck Martin, who was being dragged away anyway by Arthur.

      “Come on, Skip.  We have some things to talk about.”

The pilot smiled sheepishly at Arthur and didn’t protest as Arthur pulled him and his balloon bouquet into the sitting room and dropped them both on the sofa next to him as he sat.  For his part, Martin picked the balloons back up and deposited them behind the sofa so that he had an unobstructed view of his fiancé’s face.

      “Hi, Skip.  We found you.”

      “Arthur… you knew where I was.”

      “Yes, that’s true, but when we found out you were with Doctor Sam and that made you an accomplice and so I can say we found you because you’re part of the case now.  And I do admit I feel a little strange getting married to an accomplice in one of my cases.”

      “I am not an accomplice!”

      “I rather think you are, Skip.  I mean Doctor Sam… it’s rather like he’s on the run, like an escaped convict, and you’re helping him hide.  That makes you Doctor Sam’s accomplice.”

      “No… no it doesn’t.  I’d be an accomplice if I helped him escape, not if I shared a house with him completely by accident later on.”

      “You didn’t call the police, though, did you?  Accomplice.”

      “Arthur, Sam didn’t escape from prison so there isn’t any reason to call the police.”

      “Oh, yes, that _is_ true.  But Mr. Sherlock works for the police and you _should_ have called him, so accomplice.”

      “Oh my god… Arthur, I promise you, I am not an accomplice.  Well… at least not much of one.”

      “But why, Skip?  You knew Mr. Sherlock and I were looking for Doctor Sam and all you had to do was call!”

      “I know!  But… it’s not what you think, Arthur.  I wasn’t helping Sam hide, I was just, well, I was giving him time.  He’s… he wants some time, _needs_ some time, I think.  He’s still in a lot of physical pain and Mycroft tossing him out hurt him more than we might have predicted.  When I got here, he was in terrible shape, even if he tried to hide it and he… well that takes time to recover from and I said he could have it.  Not unlimited time, but _some_ time and it also… well, it was also for you to have your case.  Give you the opportunity to work with Sherlock on something new and different, though I guess looking for Sam was a bit like looking for that kidnapped dog.  But, Sam even said he left some clues behind for you to find, so it sounded like you had a real adventure in store for yourself and I couldn’t deny you that chance.”

      “He did?  Oh yes we did!  We certainly found some clues and figured out what they meant and were going to leave for Scotland…”

      “Sam did say that it was likely you’d end up there.”

      “So we found the _right_ clues!  Brilliant!  Even when it’s not a real case because we’re being fooled, we still found the right clues that were supposed to fool us!”

      “That’s very good, I’m sure, but Arthur… how did you figure out to come here?  Fitton is many things, but it’s not Scotland.”

      “Oh, Douglas called and asked why you were living here… which is actually a very nice here, I must say… with someone who you took to the A&E and then I got a feeling, which is called a hunch in detective language, and asked Douglas some questions and then made him go and check to see if it really was Doctor Sam staying with you and it was!”

Martin wondered just when this day had fallen through a rift in the universe to some bizarre parallel dimension, but hoped he’d find his way back to reality at some point soon.

      Wait… you used Douglas as a spy? And he agreed?”

      “Yes!  Isn’t that brilliant!  And he’s a good spy too.  Do you know he even figured out that Doctor Sam was related to Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock?  Well, he did and I rather suspect no one told him that particular fact, so he put together clues just like Mr. Sherlock and I do when we’re on a case.  I think Douglas could be a detective’s assistant if he wanted to be.”

That might be difficult with the two broken legs Martin was going to give the First Officer when he saw him next.  Douglas… spying for Arthur.  The world was going loony!

      “Arthur… I am not at all comfortable with the idea that you used someone to spy on me.”

It was rare… very, very rare… that Martin saw even a flicker of anger in Arthur’s eyes, so when he saw it this time, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to crawl away into a corner and immediately start on his penance.

      “Well, Skip…no, I think I’ll call you Martin… well, Martin… I am not at all comfortable with the idea that you lied to me and more than once even when you were talking to me face to face.”

And there was no rebuttal Martin could make to that because it was absolutely true and it was a horrible thing to do to his Arthur, no matter the reason.

      “I know, Arthur.  And I’m sorry.  Both for being testy with you and for… well, for lying.  I didn’t want to, not one bit, but… I didn’t see how I could do that and keep my promise to Sam.  I told him I didn’t want to lie to you, I made that very clear, and that was why I said that it was my decision when I told you where he was.  It was only going to be for a few days, love, and I’m being honest when I say that part of the reason, a big part, was to give you the chance to have another detective adventure.  If I’d just called right away, you wouldn’t have gotten your chance and I know how much you like working with Sherlock.  It wasn’t right to lie, Arthur, I know that, but… this time it seemed like the right thing to do.  Only for a little while, though.  You have to believe that.  It was only going to be for a few more days.”

Arthur squinted at Martin trying to do whatever it was Sherlock did when he was trying to tell if someone was telling the truth and decided that he must be doing it right because he could tell, really tell, that his fiancé was being entirely honest.

      “Well… I suppose I can see your point and it’s really very nice of you to want me to go on a case, but Martin… no, I think I can call you Skip again… but, Skip, can you at least tell me next time when you’re telling a lie?”

      “Wouldn’t that actually defeat the purpose of lying?”

      “Yes, which isn’t a bad thing, really, but if you thought you _needed_ to tell a lie, could you let me know you’re lying, but don’t want me to know what you’re lying about, so I know you’re lying and won’t get so upset when I find out?”

Arthur logic was its own brand of entertainment.

      “I… well, I suppose I can.  Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying… you want me to let you know I’m lying, but that it’s important I’m lying, so you’ll continue to let me lie and not be angry about it?”

      “Exactly!  But you have to promise not to lie for long, because then I’ll get very worried and that’s as bad as being angry.”

      “I can promise that without any trouble at all.  I, Captain Martin Crieff, do solemnly swear that if I have to lie to Steward Arthur Shappey, I shall provide fair warning that I am lying and I shall not allow the lie to last one instant past the point of it being absolutely necessary.  Is that enough for you.”

      “Brilliant!  That really does make me feel better, Skip.  I don’t like being cross with you, not one tiny bit, and now I won’t have to!”

Arthur took Martin in a bone-crushing hug and Martin let all of his worries and guilt from the past few days flow out with the air in his lungs.  His Arthur was the most wonderful man in the world and Sam was right… he shouldn’t envy anyone’s luck when he had his own huge portion of it right here.

      “Thank you, Arthur.  Truly, thank you.  This has been very difficult for me and I actually feel that I can breathe again.  I’m going to try my very best not to have to lie to you ever again.”

      “I’m glad, Skip.  But, at least you’ve been able to stay in this nice little house, while you were lying and being an accomplice.  And it _is_ a nice little house.  A perfect little house, really.  Can I see the rest of it?”

As predicted, his Arthur was already showing the signs of falling madly in love with the four walls around them and when he saw the property…

      “Of course, I’ll give you the grand tour.  And the yard is very nice, too.”

      “Really?  Are there little animals in it?”

      “I wouldn’t be surprised if a few could be found frolicking in the spring and summer.”

      “How does Mycroft do it?  Even when he doesn’t stay here, he rents the perfect house!”

      “You’re thinking he’s magic again, aren’t you?”

      “Maybe a little.  You have to admit, he does do a lot of magical things.”

      “I bow to your expertise.”

      “Thanks!  Now, can I see the house?  I want to see it all!  Except the part where Doctor Sam and Mr. Sherlock are, because I suspect they could use a little privacy.”

      “I think you’re right.  Well, come on then.  Arthur… I take it Mycroft and the others know you’re here, correct?”

      “Oh sure!  Everyone knows, but since it’s Mr. Sherlock and my case, we came to check things out first before… well, before anything else happened.”

      “You mean before Mycroft happened.”

      “Not that I want to say that, but yes.”

      “That’s alright, because I don’t think Sam’s quite ready for Mycroft to happen either.  Who knows… maybe Sherlock can change that.”

      “That’s what I hope.  If not, I’m going to try my hardest because I really think Mycroft and Doctor Sam need to have a long chat and try to fix things.”

      “Well, let’s see what Sherlock can do.  I was going to suggest, that if you wanted to, we could use the communications equipment in the bedroom to tell the others that the case was going well.”

      “That’s a very good idea.  And I can check on Greg, too.  He was fine last night, but that was last night and a lot can happen between a last night and a this morning.”

      “Ok, then.  A tour followed by a chat.”

      “Hurray!  This hasn’t been nearly as hard as I thought it was going to be!”

Arthur took Martin in another hug and the pilot spared a thought for Sam in the kitchen.  For him, this probably was going to be just as hard as Arthur thought.  Maybe… no, probably… a lot harder…

__________

      “Well, lookee here…  hold on a minute.”

Sherlock had burst into the kitchen and was somewhat put out that his brother didn’t show more surprise at his appearance.  Instead, he watched as the older man drew out his wallet and pulled out cash, which he threw onto the kitchen table.

      “I had a bet with myself and I guess I lost.  I put it at under 20% you’d come knocking.  I tell you, the more I’m around you assholes, the more pitiful I realize I’ve become.”

Sherlock reached over and flicked the money back towards his brother, then took a seat at the table across from Sam.

      “This is not the time for your juvenile antics.”

Sam ran a hand through his graying hair and made a rude noise, but more in annoyance with himself than to be an infant.

      “No… you’re right.  Just me being a dick.  Sorry about that.  How you doing, Sherlock?”

      “I find your concern questionable, considering the circumstances.”

      “Now, that’s where you’re wrong.  Never consider my concern questionable, no matter what the circumstances.”

      “Had you a true concern for me, you would not have left London without any form of communication on the subject.  I think you will agree that I do have some place in this ludicrous scenario and some say in the direction of its overwrought plot.”

      “Think we could cut a network deal?  This shit would go over big with the soap opera crowd and we could rake in some serious dough.”

      “Do you take nothing seriously?”

      “Actually, I take everything seriously.  That doesn’t mean I have to let people _know_ I take it seriously, now does it?

Sherlock had to admit distraction from one’s actual perceptions/reactions to an event or issue was a very useful technique, one _he_ employed with great success.  However, it was not always the appropriate strategy…

      “If you hope to have a discussion that has any semblance of meaning, then yes.”

      “Burn… but you’re right.  Again.  I’m sorry, Sherlock.  If you want the truth, I’m just hoping to… I guess I’m just hoping to keep the ugly in the bag so I don’t have to deal with it.  Pointless, I know, but… it’s what I’m good at.”

Something else with which the detective had extensive experience.

      “Regardless, taking the coward’s way out is not an effective method for addressing one’s problems.”

      “I could go on for quite awhile about how funny that is coming from you, but I won’t since, in principle, it’s very true.  What is it that you want from me, Sherlock?  You tell me and I’ll see what I can do about it.”

That was precisely the one question Sherlock couldn’t answer.  He had no idea what he wanted from his brother, other than…

      “I want the opportunity to establish an answer for that question.  You have not allowed me to do so and… I believe that is both inequitable and uncaring, which you proclaim now to be.”

Being the subject of intense scrutiny was not something Sherlock often suffered and he was very, very glad for it.  It was not at all comfortable and he did not want to know what information his brother was gleaning from his discomfiture.

      “Fair enough.  You see, if you asked me that question, I’d know the answer, but I’ve had more time to think about it than you.”

Don’t ask… it was an obvious ploy to make him ask and he was _not_ going to give Sherrinford the satisfaction.

      “What would you say?”

Where was John when he needed him?  Lazy doctor…

      “That I wanted my baby brother as a part of my life.  That I’ve wanted that for years… decades… and with that prize within sight, I want to reach out, snatch the chance and hold onto it as tightly as possible.”

Sherlock bit his lip and stared at his oldest brother, who looked surprisingly sad at his words.

      “None of which you did.”

      “The question was what was wanted, not what was possible.”

      “I see.”

      “Do you, Sherlock?  Do you understand how you can want something with your entire being and not be able to make it happen?  To see that no matter how hard you try, it’s not going to get you anywhere?  To be in a position where the best possible option is walking away empty-handed because it’s kindest to everyone involved?”

      “How can this possibly be considered kind?”

Sam waved dismissively at this brother, struggled out of the chair and quickly refitted the coffee pot.  When that was accomplished, he reached over and pulled a beer out of its cluster of brethren on the counter, much to Sherlock’s displeasure.

      “And it is entirely too early to be consuming alcohol.”

      “One, it’s actually late for me since I didn’t really sleep last night.  Two, I’ll have a coffee chaser, so that’ll even things out on my insides.  Three, don’t tell me you never used the ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere’ rationale when you were poking needles in your arm.”

Sherlock flinched, but noticed how quickly his brother’s eyes softened into unspoken regret.

      “You cannot justify one poor decision with second poor decision, Sherrinford.”

      “Oh, you can… it’s just stupid to do so.  And to answer your original question, sometimes ‘kind’ is what’s least hurtful.”

      “For whom?”

      “For everyone.  Mycroft hated me as a kid and that isn’t going to change.  My hanging around is just going to continue to be hard on him and he doesn’t deserve that.  Nor do the other people he’d make fucking miserable because _he_ was fucking miserable.  And I don’t deserve it either.  I’m a useless friggin’ person, I admit that, but that doesn’t mean I deserve to be insulted, distrusted, flat-out despised, when I can turn around and leave it behind me.”

Sherlock sat quietly a moment and tried to fit together the pieces of his brother’s speech.  The unifying theme quickly became clear.

      “ _I_ am not Mycroft.”

Sam downed half of his beer in one swallow then poured out coffee for him and Sherlock.

      “No, you’re not. But, what’s going to happen when you’ve had to suffer through my nonsense for awhile?  Don’t tell me your teeth already don’t go on edge sometimes.  I lived a childhood of being stabbed at by Mycroft’s little daggers and those have just gotten sharper with age.  I don’t want that to happen between us, Sherlock.  The last thing I want is for you to starting seething every time we run into each other and I do _not_ want my memories of you to be another little brother with a verbal cutlery set.  This is the best way for everyone to come out of this situation with as little damage as possible.”

      “You are basing your calculations on a severely depauperate data set.”

      “Maybe.  But the chance of being wrong is more acceptable to me than the chance of being right.  I love you and Mycroft, more than you can ever know, and the last thing I ever want is for my stupid ass to bring more aggravation to your lives than you already have.”

      “And safeguard yourself from further possible derision.”      

      “Absolutely.  Please don’t insult me by implying you don’t understand that 100%.”

No, he would not do that, because he _did_ understand it.  Understood it with a clarity that hurt so deeply and fiercely, he tried _never_ to dwell upon it.

      “I never wanted to rock the boat, Sherlock.  I tried to help John from the sidelines and was willing to do that for Greg, too… but what I didn’t want was to start this whole roller coaster going because I… I was afraid it would end up like this, with me losing you again and I didn’t know if I was strong enough for that.  I still don’t.”

His brother often called himself old, but Sherlock knew, numerically, that wasn’t actually the case.  Right now, however, his brother looked old.  Very old.  Old and tired and grey and… dispirited.  For all of his childishness, Sherrinford possessed that peculiar spark of life, now lost, that made individuals like John and Lestrade the vibrant, albeit sometimes infuriating, men they were.  Men he admired though their devotion to logic and reason was often sorely lacking, but… what they contributed through their own talents and skills could not be discounted or marginalized.  And there was no doubting what Sherrinford had done in terms of Lestrade’s recovery, often through his crass and puerile tendencies.  It was something Lestrade understood and appreciated… John, also.  That Mycroft and he did not…  In truth, he could not even fully count himself in that group of two because he _did_ understand Sherrinford’s motivations.  He might not appreciate the manner in which they were manifest, but he did understand them.  Actually, there was a great deal about his brother he understood…

      “I cannot say with any certainty what Mycroft’s behaviors might be or continue to be and, frankly, I do not care; however, you are doing discredit to me and to the others by not allowing us to prove wrong your pessimistic predictions.”

      “Sherlock… I won’t say you’re wrong, but…”

      “There are no ‘buts.’  Should anyone desire to craft some form relationship with you, the honorable action would be to give them that opportunity and let it take its natural course.”

The detective would not admit that he felt a bit proud of himself seeing the wicked and knowing smile start to move over his brother’s lips.

      “That sounds suspiciously mature of you, Sherlock.  Is John hiding under that coat of yours and feeding you lines?”

      “He is sufficiently small to manage the task, but he is currently providing the medical care to Lestrade that you are shamefully neglecting.”

      “That sketchy copper doesn’t need me to toss aspirin in his mouth or change his Band-Aids.”

      “If you are not there, John _must_ be and that inconveniences me.”

      “Hire a monkey.  Put a glass of bourbon in its hand and I doubt anyone will realize it’s not me.”

      “The fact that Mycroft is not turning a violent violet will be a telling clue.”

      “Good point.  I’ll teach the monkey some tricks like hiding Skinny’s hair gel and leaving banana peels on all his top secret folders.”

      “I think without the verbal component, your subterfuge will not pass muster.”

      “Shit.  I don’t think I can teach a monkey to talk quickly enough to make this work.”

      “And… I cannot ask a monkey questions.”

Sam drank a sip of his coffee and stared at his baby brother, seeing a tiny flutter of the very young Sherlock in this grown version’s eyes.

      “What kind of questions?”

      “I do not have a definitive list at this time; however, there are things I obviously do not know about both Mycroft and my early years and I would see that change.  For instance, Mycroft never told me the story about how he received the scar on his arm.”

      “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, given the circumstances, but… ok.  You have questions, go ahead and ask them whenever they pop into your head.”

      “I would also like to ask questions about your life after you left England.”

      “That’s fine, I don’t mind talking about it.  All in all, it’s been a good life.  If I could have had that life and kept you and Mycroft in it, I think it would have been perfect.  Or as perfect as it can be with humans involved.”

      “Humans do tend to disorder what should be organized and logical scenarios.”

      “Yep.  They all suck.  Well, except the ones that don’t, and _we_ decide who’s on that list.”

      “Agreed.”

      “And look, I haven’t made up my mind entirely about what I’m going to do, but believe me when I say I am taking everything you said very seriously and even if I decide to hot-foot it, I’m going to leave you with a means of communication.  I will always be available to you to answer any questions you might have.  Or if you just want to talk, get some things off your chest.  I’ll promise you to always be that much to you, at least, and if I can give you more… well, then it would be my privilege to do so.  Now, how about we find the lovebirds and do something with the rest of the day?  We’ve got plans for the night and, actually, with more folks around it’s going to be more fun.”

      “Plans?  You and Martin have evening plans?  Why do I find that thought somewhat terrifying?”

      “Hey!  Martin and me could paint this town a lovely shade of red if we wanted to.  Lampshades on the head and everything.  But I think I’ll save that for another night because Douglas is coming by for a bite to eat and I’m not sure there are three lampshades in this place.”

      “Pardon me, but I seem to suffering auditory hallucinations.  Who did you say was coming?”

      “Douglas, the guy that makes Martin go as red as Mycroft when I do the hula.”

      “Why in heaven’s name are you socializing with Douglas Richardson?”

      “Because he’s not a stick in the mud and actually has a sense of humor.  And we’ve both got that senior statesman thing going on, so it stands to reason we felt the call of sympatico.”

      “What does that even mean?”

      “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.”

      “I’m not sure that will occur if I have to dine a second time with that intolerable man.”

      “A second time?  This sounds like a story I need to know about.”

      “Arthur and Martin’s engagement dinner.”

      “Oh… I got part of that, but not the juicy details.  Care to fill me in?”

      “That is probably Arthur and Martin’s responsibility.  I have no doubt Arthur will gladly oblige you.”

      “Speaking of… I wonder where they’ve gotten off to.  I haven't heard one Brilliant!  in at least five minutes.”

      “Most likely Martin is showing Arthur the house and grounds.  Arthur will be overjoyed because it meets, likely exceeds, his criteria for the perfect residence, Mycroft will purchase it and gift it to the happy couple and we shall have to keep Martin away from all firearms and sharp objects while Mycroft makes a mad dash for his life.”

      “Yeah, I have a feeling Martin wouldn’t take kindly to that at all.  Don’t worry, I’ll figure out something.”

      “You?”

      “Sherlock, please… credit me some degree of con artistry.”

      “And your new friend Douglas shall take up any slack if you falter.”

      “Ah yes… very good.  Ok, let’s call it Operation Arthur’s Dream House.”

      “Must we?”

      “We must.  Now come on, let’s go see if we can interrupt something embarrassing.”

      “Is there any end to your depravity?”

      “I haven’t found it yet, but I promise to keep looking.”


	9. Chapter 9

      “Doctor Sam!  Mr. Sherlock!  You’re alive!”

Sherlock’s snarl of confusion was tempered by Sam’s hearty laugh and double thumbs-up.

      “Why would you expect either of us to be deceased?”

      “Well, Mr. Sherlock, it’s like this…”

      “No… no, please forget that I asked.  Do I understand, from your willing proximity to Martin, that you have resolved your issues?”

      “Come again?”

      “Have you mended your fences with Martin.”

      “Oh!  Yes, right… Yes!  Skip and I have talked things out and I only had to be a tad stern and not _very_ stern, so it was a very good talk and now I’m getting a tour of the house.  Which is a brilliant little house, by the way.  It’s… no, there’s nothing else I can say about it except it’s brilliant.  And I’ve only seen part of it!”

The three Holmes in the room shared a knowing look and Martin felt a heavy weight drop onto his shoulders that vaguely resembled a large banknote with Mycroft’s face in profile on the front.

      “Well, you go see the rest of it and show it to Sherlock while you’re at it.  I’m going to powder my nose and then we’re blowing this popsicle stand.  Your love muffin is taking me on a tour of your fine aircraft.”

      “GERTI?  Hurray!  That will be brilliant!  And you can meet everyone at the airfield and then I can show you my house and Skip’s flat and my favorite cake shop and the park where Skip and I like to sit and read and feed the ducks and…”

      “AND all of that sounds wonderful.  I promise that we can do every bit, after I enjoy a nice moment of alone time in the can.  You boys have fun.”

Arthur pursed his lips and frowned at how painfully the doctor walked away and turned that frown full-force on Martin.

      “Skip… I realize that you’re not a part-time doctor’s assistant like I am, but I’m not happy that Doctor Sam is still hurt and… and why did you take him to hospital?  I forgot to ask that before, but I very much want to know now.”

Martin sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

      “He wanted more pain medication and I wouldn’t touch his forged prescription.  So… he stole them instead.”

      “Well, I’m going to have a little chat with Doctor Sam about that because stealing isn’t nice, but I don’t think he would have stolen the medicine if he really didn’t need it.  Is he… Mr. Sherlock, you talked to Doctor Sam… how hurt is he?”

Sherlock considered obfuscating then remembered to whom he was speaking.

      “I believe Sherrinford is experiencing severe physical distress.  More so than he should, given the timeframe of his injuries.”

      “The idiot let himself get infected and who knows what else.  Said he had to do some cutting and stitching to fix the damage.  And he also put antibiotics on his prescription slip.  He tried to make a joke of it, but I think he actually needs them.”

      “That’s it.  Wait here.”

Sherlock and Martin watched Arthur stride off and were a bit taken aback that the affable cabin steward actually did _stride_ off and purposefully, at that.

__________

      “Doctor Sam?  Doctor Sam?  Doctor Sam?”

Arthur punctuated each invocation with a knock on Sam’s bedroom door, after finding the nose-powdering room empty.

      “One more time you screech at me Arthur Shappey and you’re going over my knee.”

      “Can I come in?”     

      “You have a fiancé.  Go get your morning delight from him.”

      “Is that a kind of cereal?”

      “Jesus H. Christ… get in here.”

Arthur opened the door a crack and peered in to check for possible… well, he wasn’t sure what exactly, but with Doctor Sam, _something_ was more than a little likely… then stepped into the room once he felt confident there was nothing unhappy lying in wait for him.

      “Hi.”

      “You could have told me that from the other side of the door, Arthur.”

Not that Arthur was prepared to answer, because he was finding it a little hard to speak, seeing the oozy and rather icky bandage over his nice stitches that he suspected weren’t actually very nice anymore.

      “Arthur?”

      “Why are you still oozy?”

      “Why is everyone concerned with my ooze?”

      “Because it’s… oozy.”

      “It’s fine.  Don’t worry about a thing.”

      “I’m going to check.”

      “No, you’re not.”

      “I am.”

      “You’re going to have to fight me for that pleasure.”

      “Ok.”

That threw Sam for a loop, but he had to give Arthur props for his stand.

      “You can’t take me, you know.”

      “Hmmm… I think you might be wrong about that.  I’ve been told that I am extremely hard to beat in a tickle fight.  And by more than one person, too.”

At Sam’s sputtered laughter, Arthur moved in and sat on the bed next to his friend and smiled.

      “Ok, Arthur.  You win.  You can check.  And slap a fresh wad of gauze over the bitch when you’re done.”

Arthur looked to where Sam was pointing on the nightstand and collected the supplies.  He very carefully pulled the tape from the existing bandage and removed the soiled gauze, but his doctor’s assistant calm didn’t hold well seeing the inflamed and angry injury the bandage had been hiding.

      “Doctor Sam…”

      “It’s fine, Arthur.  It wasn’t for awhile, I’ll be honest about that, but it’s getting better.”  

Better?  If this was better, Arthur was happy he hadn’t seen what it looked like earlier because he would have started crying and lately… well, it had gotten rather difficult to stop crying once he got started.

      “This is very bad, Doctor Sam.  Why didn’t you go to a doctor?”

      “Because there’s one right here.”

      “Well, yes, that’s true, but I think that maybe you don’t do quite the same things for yourself that you would do for one of your patients.  When you were Greg’s doctor, you did everything for him and helped him get well and he never looked like this, so I suspect that there were things you could have done, but didn’t, so I think I’m going to have to keep a closer eye on your from now on to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

      “That might be hard if I’m in Zimbabwe.”

      “Don’t be silly, Doctor Sam.  You’re not going anywhere.  I can tell.”

Now this was intriguing.

      “Oh, and how might you be doing that?”

      “Well, if you really wanted to be somewhere else you wouldn’t be in Fitton, which is the most not ‘else’ place you could possibly be!”

      “But, there was a free house here and this is the last place Skinny would think to look for me.”

      “Silly Doctor Sam… we _found_ you.  And if Mr. Sherlock and I found you when you were supposedly trying to hide, then you weren’t trying very hard.  Not that Mr. Sherlock isn’t a brilliant detective and I’m a top-notch detective’s assistant if I do say so myself, but if you really wanted not to be found, I think it would have taken longer for us to find you.  You _are_ rather sneaky.”

      “Arthur, I’m not at my best right now and I agree that I miscalculated…”

      “Nah… you wanted to be found.  Or you didn’t want to be found, but wanted to be found at the same time.  I know all about that from my course on understanding people.  Sometimes your brain thinks two things at once, even if you don’t realize you’re thinking one of them, and it will do things to make that one you don’t know you’re thinking about come true.”

      “So, you’re saying I subconsciously hoped for discovery and subverted my own plan in order to make that happen?”

      “Ummm… actually, I don’t know.  _Is_ that what I’m saying?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then hurray!”

      “Except that’s all a load of horsesh… poop.”

      “No, I think you have to believe me about this, because it’s rather my area of expertise.  Along with cooking.  And dancing.  And bear making.  Is Sammy ok?”

Sam laughed and pointed to the small chair near the window where Sammy Bear sat proudly.

      “Brilliant!  And he has a hat!”

A nice little surgeon’s cap, fashioned out of household paper products and a bit of string.

      “I got bored.”

      “Well, it looks very nice.  And that’s more proof you wanted to be found, because you wouldn’t have given Sammy a nice little hat unless you knew people would see him and say how nice it was.”

      “Off base, Arthur… way off base.”

      “It’s ok to say you wanted to be found, Doctor Sam.  That means you really _do_ want to be family again with Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock and me and Skip and Greg and Doctor Watson and… well, I actually do understand why you might want to see if anyone _would_ want to come and find you, even though it’s a bit silly, but I got my bottle collection out of it, so I’m not mad.”

      “Kid, wanting to be part of you knuckleheads’ lives isn’t in question, it’s whether that’s a good idea or not that’s the problem.  Sorry, but right now I’m thinking it’s not.”

Arthur set down his tape and gauze stared hard at Sam, which the older man found cute as it could be.

      “Doctor Sam… I am of the opinion that you might think that certain people, which would be us, might be happier or better off if you were somewhere else and not here.  Well, not here in this room, but here where we are.  Which could be London, even though Skip and I aren’t there all the time, but we’re there sometimes, so I’ll say London to make things less confusing.”

      “Too late.  But, just listen to me for a second…”

      “No, because I don’t really need to, not because I’m being rude, which I never want to be so please don’t think that I am.  It’s just… I understand that type of thinking.  I really do.  Sometimes… sometimes I cause little problems that make Skip and Douglas and Mum upset or say things that make Skip’s lips press together and not like in the way when he’s going to give me a nice kiss.  And then there was Greg… and you…”

      “Hold on… now just you hold on one minute.  First, everyone can get under people’s skin sometimes.  _Everyone_.  So that part doesn’t count.  And you are not, repeat not, responsible for Greg’s situation.  Not at all and that brain of yours had better carve that on the inside of your skull so you never, _ever_ , forget it.  And what the fu… hell did you ever do to me?”

      “Well, I told Doctor Watson that he had to have you help with Greg.  Not that Doctor Watson isn’t a good doctor, he is.   He’s brilliant!  But he needed someone be there for Greg when he couldn’t and you were absolutely perfect with Greg, so when they said you weren’t coming to Mycroft’s house to help, I got a bit forceful and said you _had_ to help and Doctor Watson said he would ask and then there you were.”

      “I’m happy you recognize my godlike powers in the medical field, kid, but I honestly don’t think John decided to chase after my ass because you gave him that sweet little glare of yours.”

      “He did.  I was _very_ convincing.”

Sam laughed again and felt a little spike of brightness take root in his gut.  No matter how pathetic and worthless you might feel, a few spoonsful of Arthur made the bitterness go down easier.

      “So, I know what it feels like to wonder if maybe bad things happen because of what you might say and do, and maybe… maybe people would be happier if I wasn’t there at all.  But, then I think about the things I‘ve done that have made them happy or when I’ve been helpful and that makes me feel better, though sometimes I do need a tiny lie down or a little cry and then some ice cream to feel _completely_ better, but that’s ok, because who doesn’t like ice cream!  Have you had any ice cream?”

      “No, that little bit of heaven has not been part of my daily nutritional regimen.”

      “Well, that’s rather silly, if you ask me.  You need lots!  You’re feeling a bit down and you’re sick and both of those let you have all the ice cream you want so you should have all different sorts in the kitchen and chocolate syrup and nuts and cherries and bananas and pickles and all those yummy things to make your ice cream especially brilliant!  We’ll buy some, don’t worry.  I would make it, but my ice cream machine is at home and I’m not sure if I have enough ingredients right now to make anything special.”

Sam had to admire how Arthur Shappey, in the span of five minutes, cut straight to the heart of the issue and made it seem, ultimately, like it was something with an easy solution.  It wasn’t, of course.  Not by a long shot.  And he certainly didn’t have any subconscious urge to foil his own plan… that was ludicrous.  So A for effort, but the details needed a little fine tuning.

      “I’m sure I can get by with store-bought. And I promise not to beat feet until I have had a nice big bowl of whatever you pick.”

      “You’ll get lots of bowls, because, for starters, you’re not going anywhere and you know it and then you’re not going anywhere until I say you can because I think you need me to keep an eye on you until you get better and I can’t do that if you’re off somewhere that’s not Fitton or London.  Especially London, because that’s where Greg is and you need to come back so you can take care of Greg and give Doctor Watson a little break.  Mr. Sherlock gets a bit testy when he doesn’t have enough of Doctor Watson’s attention, so you need to come and let Doctor Watson have a holiday so Mr. Sherlock can be a tad less testy again.”

      “Testy’s not quite the right word, Arthur.  Try horny, instead.”

      “Oh… yes, well…”

      “Or just stick with testy and you and I will both know what you mean.”

      “But, now _I’m_ not exactly sure what I mean.”    

      “Maybe it’s better that way.”    

      “Yes… I think you might be right.  Ok, let me take another look at this…”

Sam watched Arthur with an indulgent eye as the steward gently touched the area around the wound and voiced a number of hmmmm’s and I see’s.

      “That sounds very professional, Arthur.  Nice job.”

      “Brilliant!  I’m trying to be professional, too, because this is a very professional situation.  And, Doctor Sam… I do not think that these are my stitches.”

      “No… sorry.  I had to pull those out and tuck in a few new ones.”   

      “You didn’t do a very good job.”

      “Well, I couldn’t reach easily and I may have had a few too many bourbons to dull the pain when I was doing my stitch witchery.”

      “We need to have a little talk about that, you know.”

      “Your ‘little talk’ list has to have enough on it, so let’s leave this one item off it for right now, what say?”

      “Well, I do have a number of things to chat about with a quite a few people, but this one is important so I’m going to leave it on so I don’t forget.”

      “Just trying to help.”

      “No, you’re just trying avoid having a little talk.  You should just do like Mr. Sherlock does and get them over with quickly so he learns his lesson and can work on fixing whatever problem got him his little talk to begin with.”      

      “Learning lessons was never my strong suit, Arthur.”

      “I don’t think that’s true.  If you weren’t good at learning lessons, you couldn’t have become a doctor.  I think you learn the ones you want to learn and ignore the ones you don’t.”

Well, that arrow actually hit its target.  Sam had to admit that Arthur was scoring points, but that admission would, of course, die with him.

      “I’ve always been a little thick.  Just ask Skinny… he’ll tell you in detail about how brain dead I actually am.  He probably has his own list somewhere of evidence that he’d be more than happy to share.”

Arthur shook his head and tsk-tsk’d the older man.

      “Mycroft doesn’t have any lists about you.  That’s just silly.”

      “Well, Mycroft _is_ silly.”

      “Only a little.  And only when he’s with Greg.  Or me.  Doctor Sam, you’re just trying to make me forget what I was talking about.  Mycroft does that sometimes, too, but I’m catching on to his tricks.”

      “Well, he _is_ my baby bro, so it stands to reason he took a few plays from my playbook.”

      “I bet Mycroft was a cute baby.”

      “He was!  Chubby little thing with those blue eyes and… well, I probably shouldn’t say he was a red-head, but those strands of hair on that teeny head of his weren’t far off Martin’s color.  It darkened as he got older and now he gives it some help… he wasn’t a giggly baby, though.  You could tell, even when he was a week old, that he was a thinker.  You’d go to give him a bottle and he’d fuss until you held it still so he could think about it a second before he’d actually eat.  That followed through his whole childhood… always thinking, calculating, analyzing... I think he was sort of afraid to actually have fun.  It didn’t come naturally to him and I have a feeling he was scared he’d do something wrong if he actually cut loose and just enjoyed himself.  Never understood that it was ok to screw up or make mistakes sometimes.  Not when it really counted, of course, but for everyday life, there was nothing wrong with not being perfect all the time.”

      “Oh… I don’t like the sound of that.  I make mistakes _all_ the time, but you learn something every time you do, so that’s a good thing if you think about it.  And I have _lots_ of fun… poor Mycroft.  Everyone should be able to have fun when they’re small.  And when they’re big.  They should be able to have fun all the time, really.”

      “That’s my philosophy.  I think Greg’s going help Skinny a lot with that, though.  The invalid has got a good sense of separating work from fun, enjoying himself when he has the chance and letting himself be a little silly once in awhile to wash out the crap of the day or the week or the month and giving himself a fresh start.”

      “Yes!  That’s exactly what I feel like when I have a very silly moment.  All fresh and happy and I may even forget completely about what I was doing before I got silly!  And Greg _will_ be good for that… he’s an amazing policeman, but he’s brilliant at making Mycroft laugh.  And to get Mycroft to make jokes, which I don’t always understand, but they make Greg laugh, so they have to be funny!”

      “Perfect husband for Skinny.”

      “HURRAY!  WEDDING!”

      “Calm down.  Just wishful thinking.”

      “Oh, that’s a tad droopy, because I really, really hope that Mycroft and Greg get married and have a big wedding.  They’re already forever boyfriends, but they should be husbands like Skip and I are going to be.  That just makes sense.”

      “I agree.”

      “And you’re going to help.”

      “I don’t agree.”

      “Too late.  You’re back as Mycroft’s brother now, so that means you have to help with the wedding.  I think it’s a law, but I’ll check with Greg to make sure.”

      “But we just established there isn’t a wedding to consider right now.”

      “It’s going to happen.  Not right this very second, because Greg has to get well first, and then there’s Skip and my wedding, and then Mycroft has to ask Greg to marry him and THEN they’ll have their wedding, but that doesn’t mean we can’t start planning now.  Oh!  Right!  Yes… I’m going to start a new album and fill it with ideas!  Actually I should do that for my own wedding… Brilliant!  I’ll have two new albums to work on!  We can buy them today while we’re shopping for ice cream.  Oh, and I think we might need more bandages.  It’s taking rather a lot to make this tidy.”

      “Still oozing?”

      “A bit, yes.  I don’t think that’s good, Doctor Sam.”

      “Well, let’s keep an eye on it and if necessary, you can try your hand at sewing again.”

      “Or Doctor Watson can, since we’ll be in London.”

      “You don’t give up, do you?”

      “How is that helpful?”

For once, Sam had no argument.

      “First things first… let’s enjoy the day and see how things go.  And your pal Douglas is coming for dinner, so we have to decide what we want and I’ll happily put you in charge of that.  I got the names of a few places to get take-out from, and you can pick whatever you think looks good.”

      “That’s brilliant!  It’s handy, too, since I really should say thank you to him in person for being my spy.”

      “Spy?”

      “Douglas gathered evidence for me and I added it all up to know  you were here!  If he hadn’t have helped, it would have taken longer to find you.  Not much longer, of course, since you’re not really trying to hide, but a few days, at least.”

      “Really?  Dougie-boy was playing me?  Miserable cocksucker.  Oops!  Sorry, kid.  Well, I gotta hand it to him, he did a good job.”

      “Thanks!  I told him what to look for  and it _was_ rather sweet that he called when he saw Skip driving you back from hospital, so I have to tell him thank you.  We can buy extra ice cream and have that after dinner as a special thank-you present for Douglas.”

      “Actually, the booze barn’s delivering a few of my personal favorites and I’ll take that as _my_ gratitude present for being so easy for you to find.”

      “Sherry?”

      “No.”

      “ _Can_ we have sherry?”

      “You want sherry?  Really?”

      “Mycroft let me try some and… well, it’s very good, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, it’s very… sherry-ish.  I tell you what, I’ll talk to my pal at the hooch hut and see what I can come up with.”

      “Yes!  And when we’re back in London, you can have some of Mycroft’s, which is my very favorite of all time.”

      “Gotta admire your persistence, Arthur.  It’s actually fairly awe-inspiring.”

      “Thanks!  Now, I’ve got you bandaged and I’m going to check again in two hours exactly.  See?  I’m looking at my watch so I know the time right now and can get it just perfect.  Are we ready to go and see Skip and Mr. Sherlock?”

      “I guess we should.  Their ears are probably getting sore from pressing them against the door.”

Arthur turned a scandalized took at the bedroom door and hmmm’d his judgement.

      “Skip, are you eavesdropping?”

      “No.  Why would you even ask me that?”

      “Mr. Sherlock?”

      “Martin is lying.”

      “I mean _you_ , Mr. Sherlock.”

      “I am _not_ lying.”

Arthur shared an exasperated look with Sam, then helped the doctor off the bed.

      “That’s my blood, Arthur.  Are you really sure you want to join up for the long haul?  There’s still time to change your mind and I could use a traveling companion when I head to Antigua in a few days.”

      “Oh… a little holiday is always a nice idea, but I think our little holiday is going to be in London, thank you very much.”

      “Dog with a bone…”

      “WHERE!”

      “Sorry, kid.  You missed it.”

__________

Martin had long ago learned to live conflicted and today was an example as to why.  Whereas it was actually exciting and rewarding to find someone who was interested in GERTI, his flight experiences and aviation topics in general, the ‘who’ was Sam who also knew more about all of it than he did.  And, while it was heartening that Sam happily let Arthur show him the trappings of his own duties on the plane, it wasn’t heartening that Sherlock took his turn in the flight deck being a complete nightmare of questions, demands and… touching things.  But, he _was_ interested and willing to listen, at least somewhat, so it wasn’t entirely a painful experience.

      “When Sherrinford forces you to allow him to pilot your aircraft, I shall serve as First Officer.”

      “Wrong.”

      “If you can convince Sherrinford to take the second chair, I will happily captain your vessel myself.”

      “Doubly wrong.”

      “You are ridiculously obstinate and adherent to the arbitrary rules of your trade.”

      “You don’t know how to fly.”

      “I understand the theory.  That is all that is required.”

      “You also probably understand the theory of surgery, but would you have felt confident scrubbing in and doing John’s job in the operating room working on Greg?”

      “I hardly see the connection.”

      “Yes, you do, or you wouldn’t be pouting.”

      “I do not pout.”

      ‘You’re filling this plane with pout.”

      “Pout is not a form of matter.”

      “With you it is.”

      “Although I do consider myself a man of wonder, even I cannot circumvent the basic laws of physics.”

      “Not that you wouldn’t try.”

      “A basic tenet of science is to test and challenge established paradigms.”

      “You can work on that instead of flying my plane, then.”

      “I will speak with Sherrinford on the matter.”

      “Oh good.  A family chat.  I can’t wait.”

      “If you admit defeat now, you might escape unscathed.”

      “I will defend GERTI from your amateur hands no matter what it takes.”

      “I am telling Sherrinford you termed him an amateur.”

      “You will not!”

      “I will so.”

      “Will not.”

      “Will so.”

      “Baby.”

      “Zygote.”

      “What?”

      “I win.”

      “You do not!”

      “You cannot counter, so I am victorious.”

      “I _was_ going to let you take turn at the stick if we were ever up in the air, but now I won’t.”

      “You’re lying.”

      “Nope.  Blew your chance, Sherlock.  Hope your zagnut was worth it.”

      “Your idiocy is fatiguing.”

      “Well, I do advise a nap since Douglas is coming to dinner.”

      “Is Sherrinford providing the house with alcohol?”

      “Lots.”

      “Then, yes.  A nap and then an abundance of alcohol.  We should begin soon.”

      “Arthur has a shopping list.”

      “Intolerable!  That shall take all day.”

      “Then we need to leave now.  Craft supplies are involved.”

      “Why are you still sitting there?”

      “I really have no idea.”

__________

It didn’t take quite the entire day to complete Arthur’s shopping list, the addendums both Sherlock and Sam added to it, the tour stops Arthur demanded, the additional stop for Arthur to demonstrate his doctor’s assistant skills and change Sam’s bandage, which Sherlock insisted on observing… but it came very close.  By the time the group returned to Mycroft’s rented house, Sherlock was cranky from boredom, Sam was cranky from pain and dealing with toddlers, Martin was cranky from Sam and Sherlock and Arthur was nearly glowing with glee from his fun day.

      “THIS WAS BRILLIANT!  Can we do it again  tomorrow?  Everyone taking a little ride and seeing things and doing things and having a completely brilliant time?”

      “If you consider burying my dead body a completely brilliant time, then yes.”

      “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.  You’re only a wilty flower because you miss Doctor Watson.  Why don’t you call him and chat so you feel better?”     

      “Why don’t you make some tea so I feel better?”

      “Arthur is not your slave, Sherlock.”

      “That’s alright, Skip.  I don’t mind.  I’d like a cup of tea, actually.”

      “He shouldn’t boss you about, love.”

      “I was not ‘bossing’ Arthur to do anything.  I asked why he would not engage himself in the task.”

      “But you knew he’d do it if you asked.”

      “So you admit that I did not ‘boss.’  I asked.”

      “Don’t you try and turn this in circles, Sherlock.”

      “Shut the fuck up, both of you.  Seriously, go and find something nice and stiff to give yourselves a 2-hour fucking and leave me and Arthur in peace.  Sorry, Arthur.  I have had it up to here with those two’s yammering.”

      “Go sit and ooze somewhere quiet, you evil old thing.  My god… you’re worse than Mr. Birling.”

      “Oh Skip… Mr. Birling’s just a bit… well, ok, more than a bit… but he’s just, you know… and he doesn’t swear.  So, now that’s sorted, I’ll go make the tea.”

Three pairs of confused eyes followed the steward as he left the sitting room and Sam decided that sitting and oozing suddenly sounded like a very good idea.

      “Now, since I’m not one of you lousy limeys and don’t want your boiled grass, someone go get me a beer.  Or, pour me something a little more lethal, instead.  I could use some tasty painkilling right about now.”

      “If I accede to your wishes, will you promise to remain silent for the remainder of the evening?”

      “What’s with you and Martin trying to put a gag on me?  Not that I mind that in the right situation, but neither of you remotely comes close to my idea of the right situation, so cut it out.”

Sherlock snorted loudly, but stalked out of the room, more to get away from his brother’s inanity than to actually comply with his request.  This left Martin alone with Sam, who was pointing towards the irritatingly bleak hearth.

      “Martin - fire.”

      “I would if I had a pistol.”

      “If Arthur wouldn’t cry, I’d smother you in your sleep.”

      “Yeah, but he will, so I’ll be sleeping very well tonight.”

      “You do realize there are lots of non-lethal things you can do to a person while they sleep.  You might consider investing in a diaper since I know exactly where I can find a bowl of warm water and you do possess hands.”

      “That does _not_ work.”

      “Well, we’ll find out, now won’t we.”

      “If I get a fire going, can I consider myself safe from soiling my bedding?”

      “Fine, you big spoilsport.  No one ever lets me have any fun.”

      “And we are all better off for it.”

__________

Sherlock paused a moment to watch Arthur making tea, which was as elaborate a dance routine as one of Arthur’s actual dance routines.

      “Mr. Sherlock!  Did you come to help?”

      “No, I require a bottle and a rubber or latex-based nipple for the very large and very disgruntled baby we are minding.”

      “Oh, well, I don’t think there’s one here, but I’ll look.”

Sherlock huffed and strode into the kitchen to pry away a beer bottle from its neighbors.

      “I believe Sherrinford can make do.”

      “Beer?  Well, I suppose he _has_ been good today and hasn’t had anything to drink yet.  I told him we have to chat about that, but I also said he could have some of Mycroft’s sherry when we were back in London, so that might have been a little confusing.  I’ll straighten it out later.”

      “You believe he will return with us to London?”

      “Don’t you?”

Sherlock set the beer bottle back on the counter and reflected a moment on his and Sherrinford’s conversation earlier in the day.

      “I do, actually.  Sherrinford stated that he intends to provide me with a means of communication if he relocates permanently and he would know that I could easily trace that to wherever that location might be, were he to try attempt to conceal his location from us.  Whereas I will not say he shall not ultimately return to the United States or remain here, he, at least, _will_ bring some resolution to his current issues before he does so.

      “That sounds reasonable.  I don’t want him going somewhere far away, because I like Doctor Sam.  I mean… he’s brilliant,  he really is.  But if he does go away, then I’d want him and Mycroft to have said they’re sorry to each other and Mycroft to give Doctor Sam the same equipment I have so that I can talk to him on my telly and on my computer and watch movies with him and all the things I do for everyone else when I’m in Fitton or flying and you’re in London.  That would be alright, as long as he visited a lot and Skip and I visited him a lot, but it would be better if we visited him in London since you and Doctor Watson and Greg and Mycroft are there and we can visit everyone at once!”

      “He will not stay in London if he is at odds with Mycroft.”

      “No, I expect that you’re right.  What are you going to do about it?”

      “Me?”

      “Of course!  You’re Mycroft’s brother and Doctor Sam’s brother, so you _have_ to do something!  It’s part of your job!”

      “Being a brother is not a job, Arthur.  However, I do admit that Mycroft’s greatest joy is emphasizing what he believes is my indenture to him and Sherrinford is likely little better.”

      “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know it’s your job to help fix things between Mycroft and Doctor Sam.  What are you going to do?”

      “I have no idea!”

      “So you _are_ going to try and fix things.  I knew you were.  And don’t worry, I’ll help however I can.  You just tell me and I’ll do it.  Even if I don’t know how, I’ll learn how or buy what I need to do it or have Skip help me help you, which is actually nice, since really like doing things with Skip.”

      “So, restoring Mycroft and Sherrinford’s relationship is now my responsibility.  I feel so blessed.”

      “You can say _our_ responsibility, if you like, since I said I’d help.”

      “Yes, that makes me feel much better.”

      “Hurray!  And look, the tea’s ready!”

      “I shall tend to my own assigned task.”

Sherlock picked up the beer bottle again and strolled casually out of the kitchen.  His brain, however, was not casually strolling, it was kicking the inside of his skull and using terms John only said when he found something that was once connected to a human being on their new dishes.  It was _not_ his obligation to do anything for those two overbearing nightmares.  Not on his plate at all.  He contracted to find Sherrinford that that was the extent of his responsibility.  That _he_ did not actually find his brother in no manner expanded his duties or imparted on him some form of penalty for defeat.  Someone would pay dearly for this…

__________

Arthur looked around the room, with the crackling fire and people he loved having a nice time talking and laughing, or at least talking and not shouting, and he felt like he was going to explode with happiness.  All it needed was the rest of their family to be absolutely perfect, which admittedly would be a little difficult to fit in here since the room was a bit small, which was fine since it was brilliant and cozy, but getting Doctor Watson and Mycroft and Greg, especially in his bed, would make things a bit cramped.  But right now, even with only _some_ people here, it was brilliant.  Everyone snuggly on the sofa or in a chair, well, except for him because sitting on the floor was so much fun when you could do it by a fire and lean against someone’s legs, especially Skip’s legs, which were tiny and easy to cuddle.  It was a perfect little room in a perfect little house with a perfect little yard… someday he and Skip would have something like this.  Maybe it wouldn’t be quite as perfect since neither of them was magical like Mycroft, but it would be wonderful and brilliant and lovely and theirs and that was all that really mattered.  He and Skip in their own little house where every night could be like this, even when there weren’t any other people having a bit of a visit.  Cuddly nights with a fire and a film and popcorn and then a long sleep in a snuggly warm bed and then a tasty breakfast and then… and then _everything_!  _Anything_!  Every day...”

      “Arthur, are you ok?”

Arthur stopped his bum-propelled bouncing and turned a massive smile towards his fiancé.

      “I’m very ok, Skip.  Very, very ok.”

      “Good… just don’t hurt your bum.”

      “I won’t. And… Hurray!

The knock at the door had Arthur flying off the floor and racing to greet their final guest.

      “Douglas!”

      “Arthur?”

      “Yes!”

      “Ah… I take it your clandestine mission has found its terminus.”

      “I don’t know about that, but we _did_ find Doctor Sam, so that’s another case solved!”

      “I see.  And has my highly critical role in your initiative been disclosed or does my undercover status remain intact.”

      “Oh, well, yes… I may have mentioned to Doctor Sam that you were my spy, but I don’t think he’s very angry.  He only swore a little, though it was one of the really bad ones.  Maybe he _is_ a slightly bit angry... come in and that way we can find out.”

Douglas found himself tugged across the threshold and noticed quite pointedly that Arthur slightly huddled behind him as he applied a few extra pushes to get the first officer into the sitting room.

      “There he is.  Benedict Arnold in the flesh.”

Douglas bowed slightly to his new acquaintance and felt the completely nonexistent anxiety, what a preposterous idea, he most certainly was not feeling bleed away seeing the very real twinkle in Sam’s eye.  Apparently, the good doctor appreciated a well-played game.

      “And wasn’t he a lucky man to be possessed of this level of masculine beauty and grooming.  That the filthy revolutionaries did not uncover his motivations sooner is a testament to their astounding lack of observational skills and higher-order thinking.”

      “I’d give you the comeback that deserves, except there are young and impressionable waifs in the room and I don’t want to be held responsible for their loss of innocence.  Martin wouldn’t survive it.”

      “Gracious, no.  Sir would wither like a salamander in the Sahara and then where would poor Arthur be?  Not living with me, I can assure you that.  And Dupin… my, isn’t this the special occasion.”

      “Your presence certainly ensures that, Mr. Richardson, in much the same way a case of smallpox may be described as _special_.”

      “You watch your mouth, Bablylock.  That right there is Arthur’s private property, his personal lickboots lackey, and you don’t want to make that kid feel insulted.  He’ll karate chop you so fast your head will be looking up from the floor at your body and wondering what the fuck for a good three minutes before you go ‘shit, I’m dead.’ “

      “And the little bits of revenge begin to peek through your already threadbare veil of civility.  Highly crass of you, Samuel.  However, you may improve my opinion of you through the sincere and heartfelt offer of a libation.”

      “Martin, go pee in a…”

      “Doctor Sam…”

      “Dang it, Arthur.  None of you are ever being invited to any party I throw because you all suck donkey di… ears and are no fun whatsoever.  Go get your Judas some lemonade or something and bring me a bottle of whatever looks evilest in my liquor cabinet.  Shortcock, you call for food.  Here’s my phone… punch the button marked FOOD and tell the nice person who answers to send over a little bit of everything.  Arthur was going to get to choose, but he cramped my style and that can’t go unpunished.  You can… here, put it on my card.”

Arthur scurried off to the kitchen and Sherlock scowled at this older brother, earning his own scowl in return.

      “Exactly what will it take, Sherrinford, for you to fully understand that I have no interest in following your orders.”

Douglas shot a very surprised and intrigued at Sam, who did a good job kicking his shoe upwards and into his lap, then flinging it at Sherlock.

      “You’re as useless as your tabasco-colored twin!”

      “No one is as useless as Martin!”

      “What the… how’d I get involved in this?  And I’m not useless, either of you, so feel free to shut up at any time.”

      “Well, that _is_ a topic that we can debate at leisure Captain Crieff, however, _Sherrinford_ , I believe you have a story to tell and how fortuitous that Arthur arrives with my… beverage… to bolster my enjoyment of it’s unfolding.  I believe my question to Arthur as to the plainness of your appellation is suddenly becoming one of striking relevance.”

      “Douglas!  How do you know Doctor Sam’s real name?  Though, I’m not sure if you can actually call it his real name since he didn’t use it for very long.  At least not as long as he’s been Doctor Sam.”

Arthur’s shocked face was almost comical and Sam found it a little calming to his irritation.  This wasn’t ground he really felt like covering tonight.

      “And I hate it, kid.  Don’t forget that part.  Makes the argument more compelling.”

      “But why?  I think it’s a nice name.  A bit letter-y, but that’s not a bad thing, really.”

      “Arthur, sit and fondle your honey bunny’s legs again and let me get this over with.  For your information, Douglas, I changed my name when I was sixteen.  Seriously, what girl wants to screw someone with a name like Sherrinford?  It was cramping my style.”

      “Why do I believe that your sexual escapades began long before that?”

      “Because you’re a suspicious little ninny, Sherlock, that’s why.”

      “Who is also correct.”

      “Yeah, ok.  It’d be stupid to lie, since that would tarnish my image as an all-around sexual dynamo.”

      “And none of which is providing me with the very fertile tale of intrigue I believe is hovering just beyond the gossamer fabric of lies that has been shrouding this entire circumstance.  Since Arthur’s payment to me for services rendered has yet to begin, I feel an advance on that debt is not unwarranted.  If it helps, I do have some information on the subject, verified by our valiant steward, so a full disclosure is hardly a groundbreaking event.”

Arthur nodded furiously and Martin cushioned his fiancé’s head from getting bruised by his rather bony knee.

      “It’s true!  Douglas already knows you’re related to Mr. Sherlock and Mycroft.  He guessed it himself!”

Sam scrutinized both Douglas and Arthur and found, to his weary amusement, that they were telling the truth.

      “Fine.  Whatever.  Douglas Richardson, meet Sherrinford Holmes, family black sheep, runaway and brother to Mycroft, aka Mr. Perfect, and Sherlock, aka, The Baby.”

Whatever Sam was going to say, Douglas hadn’t predicted that and hoped his air of omniscience and demur savoir faire wasn’t too besmirched by his slight choke at the news.

      “Brother?  You’re Dupin’s _brother_?”

      “And my guess is that you’re not sure who to pity more.”

      “I think it’s rather even odds at this point.”

      “Add in that Sherlock had to spend the majority of his life in Mycroft’s clutches and I didn’t.”

      “Oh, that does shift the balance rather sharply.  Congratulations, Mr. Detective, you have earned the lion’s share of my pity.  Old Sherry here definitely got the better end of the stick.”

      “Sherry!  Douglas knows your nickname, Doctor Sam!  And that reminds me, we have some very nice sherry for after dinner, which I admit that I’m rather anxious to drink.”

      “You can have a little now, Arthur.  I give you permission.  Especially if you bring me back something, which you completely forgot to do last time you left on a drinks run.”

      “I didn’t forget, Doctor Sam, I just decided not to.  You just finished your nice beer and why would you want to spoil the flavor of that with something new?”

      “Very good, kid.  You mixed in just enough of something that you actually think is plausible with the out-and-out lie so you could say it with a straight face since it was somewhat true and not a complete fib.”

      “Oh, you noticed.”

      “Yeah, I did.  Now, march.”

      “Can I still have my sherry?”

      “Yes, you can still have your sherry.”

Sam pointed at the kitchen and Arthur meekly obeyed, with Douglas carefully thinking about the entire exchange.  And about his last visit… apparently, a tendency to addiction _did_ run in the family.

      “So there you have it Dougie.  Two-thirds of the Holmes clan squeezed into Martin and Arthur’s future house…”

      “Hey!”

      “Shut up, Martin.  As I was saying, two-thirds of the illustrious Holmes family sardined into this precious little house and god help us all for it.  If Mycroft showed up, I think a sink hole would open up and swallow us hook, line and sinker.”

      “Mycroft’s vast waistline guarantees that eventuality.”

      “And you shut up, too, Sherlock.  Skinny’s not fat or I’d call him Porky, instead.”

      “I believe you call Mycroft, Skinny, to bolster his crippled self-esteem from enjoying a lifetime of corpulence.  Or perhaps you are using the term ironically.”

      “I’ll ironic you right between the eyes, lil’ shit.  Be nice to your brother.  He’s got to deal with the invalid all by himself right now, along with your own mooning snuggle pie.  Talk about pity… there’s a man who deserves some pity.  And I’m still talking about Mycroft, not your shrimpy little proto-husband, just so you know.  John chose his misery so he can enjoy it in its full glory.” 

Douglas had to admit that now his awareness was tuned towards it, there was _much_ to notice about Sherlock and Sam’s interactions.  And their behaviors…

      “Yes, the sibling bond is becoming readily evident.  I feel ridiculous not noticing its heartwarming glow when I first walked in.”

      “I know!  You can tell, you really can, that Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam are brothers, even though Doctor Sam has a different way of speaking and is a bit scruffy.”

Arthur handed Sam a glass of something brown and fume-emitting and held onto his own small glass of sherry.

      “You’re a good boy, Arthur.  So good, I’ll forgive you the scruffy crack.  Actually, I’ll forgive you because it’s true.”

And both Holmes boys had a very soft spot for one certain cabin steward.  Actually, that was three Holmes boys, because if anyone in the world doted more on Arthur than Mycroft Holmes, Douglas thought, he had never met them.  Apparently, Arthur was kryptonite to the House of Holmes.  At least now, _he_ had one member of that scurrilous tribe that viewed him with proper regard… and, surprisingly, he found that highly agreeable.

__________

Sherlock’s delivery order of ‘everything’ was taken literally by the restaurant manager and enough food for a royal wedding feast littered the sofa table, side tables, floor and plates of the small party and everyone had to admit that (a) it was very good and (b) the leftovers for the next few days would be quite enjoyable, too.  As the food filled hungry stomachs and the fire appreciably warmed the room, the conversation lost some of its biting edge and mellowed nicely into a warm and familial tone that held through a hundred different topics, the threat of charades, the threat of an impromptu flight to Paris and very large bowls of Arthur’s ice cream smorgasbord.  That some of the participants might have mellowed a bit with the consumption of alcohol certainly helped and Douglas had to laugh at how Sam… _Sherrinford_ … was very much like his younger brother.  Not in the grandiose, obvious ways, but in subtle and more intrinsic ways, especially now that his guard was being let down enough for them to be seen.  Though he didn’t have the entire story of his new friend’s decision to flee his family’s embrace or how much of what he had been told about Samuel’s life was actually true, it was easy to discern from the looks the older man gave Sherlock when the detective wasn’t looking, that he greatly missed having the young man in his life.

      “So, Sherry, old stick… for how much longer shall we lowly Fittonites enjoy the pleasure of your company?”

      “Hmmm… that’s a little up in the air.”

      “What Doctor Sam means is he’s not certain when he wants to talk to Mycroft, because he _has_ to talk to Mycroft, but that might not be a very jolly chat, so Doctor Sam might need a day or two to get ready for it.  And lots of ice cream.”

Martin couldn’t boast anymore about being the sole recipient of Sam’s skill with lethally-hurled food products as Arthur now wore a cold linguini noodle around his neck, much like a soggy garrote.  With the attached red sauce, it made an actually upsetting tableau.

      “I think I’m wet.”

      “You’re lucky it’s only from sauce, kid.”

      “Do I take it, dear friend, that you have unresolved sibling issues to address?”

      “I’ll say he does!  Doctor Sam…”

This time a plump gnocchi landed directly into Arthur’s mouth, which didn’t upset the steward as much he might have thought it would.  It was _very_ good gnocchi.

      “Arthur, last time I checked you were a doctor’s _assistant_ and not a full-on doctor and your name is not Sam, no matter how you try to rearrange the letters.”

      “But, Doctor Sam…”

The playfully twirled finger full of ricotta made Arthur rethink his rebuttal.

      “Nice.  And to answer your question, Douglas old pal… Mycroft and I have what you might call a complicated relationship.  Mostly, it’s because he despises his big bro and for, I must admit, some valid reasons.  Arthur over there thinks a variation of his trademarked little chats will make everything all hunky dory, but as we know, Arthur’s very supportive and nurturing view of the world doesn’t extend to worthless old reprobates like myself and Skinny.”

      “Hmmm… you could be right.  Is it a long-standing breach?”

      “Three plus decades.”

      “Oh, one of those.  Tough luck, Arthur.  You might as well be trying to fill in the Grand Canyon with a teaspoon.  Like that American reference?  I can be very accommodating to the colonies when I feel the spark of collegiality.”

      “NO!  Douglas…”

      “Calm down, love.  Douglas is being hyperbolic.”

      “Oh very good, Sir.  Did Dupin slip you some vocabulary cards for emergency purposes?”

      “Martin’s vocabulary is perfectly adequate for his lifestyle and career choice.”

Martin and Douglas both blinked at Sherlock’s dry, but unsolicited compliment.

      “Well, the next time I have to remind our Captain that panacea is not something our speedy delivery boy would have packed in our dinner order, I shall remember your fond words.”

      “Are you sure, Douglas?  There was a _lot_ in those bags.”

      “Yes, Arthur.  You see…”

Arthur’s mobile blaring the theme to _Miami Vice_ cut short Douglas’s dissertation and the steward didn’t waste a moment answering it.

      “GREG!  Hurray!  We were just having a brilliant time and I was wondering at one point what it would be like if you and Mycroft and Doctor Watson were here with us and now you are!  Well, your voice is with us, anyway and that’s almost as good as the rest of you!  Are you ok?  Nothing’s wrong, is there?  Oh no… tell me what it is and I promise I won’t cry.  No, I can’t promise that, because I probably _will_ cry, but I’ll try to do it quietly so I don’t interrupt you.”

Sherlock moved to take the phone from Arthur, but his limber assistant scooted out of reach to maintain possession of his prize.

      “Arthur!  Good to hear your voice.  And there’s no need to cry – I’m fine.  Just calling to see how the case was going.  You should always send along status reports, you know, in case something happens, so the rest of us can take up where you left off.”

      “Oh… yes!  Right!  That makes sense because if I had gotten sick or had a knock on the head and lost my memory, you’d need to know what I know so the case could still be solved!  Thanks, Greg.  That’s very good advice.”

      “You’re quite welcome, so go ahead and I’ll make sure to remember all the important details.”

      “Well…”

      “Uh huh…”

      “WE FOUND DOCTOR SAM!”

Everyone in the room winced at Arthur’s shout, but Sherlock was still able to try and steal the mobile, only to meet with a second failure as Arthur sprang to his feet to do a victory jig.

      “That’s great, lad.  And was he exactly where you knew you were going to find him?”

      “Yes!  And so was Skip, but I talked to him, so I don’t think he’s an accomplice anymore.  Well, I actually do, but Skip has got me thinking that _accomplice_ might not actually be the proper term.  I’ll have to talk to you about it when we get back.”

      “I look forward to it.  Any idea when that’s going to be? And if you’re coming back with a special guest?”

      “Oh… no.  I can’t say I do.  We’re still working on that.”

Arthur cut very hesitant eyes towards Sam, who snorted loudly in irritation.

      “Well, can I do anything to help?”

      “Oh, I don’t know… wait.  Yes, I do!  Here you talk to Doctor Sam and tell him how much you need him.”

Arthur shoved his mobile into Sam’s hands and was very lucky the older man didn’t go through with his first thought of hurling the device into the fire.  Arthur would probably dive in after it because Arthur absolutely loved his mobile and Sam experienced a very childish twinge of annoyance that Arthur’s phone adoration was very much linked to who had actually given the boy the phone.  And now he had to talk to the person who screwed Arthur’s magic-phone provider.

      “Don’t you have anything better to do than fuck up our day, invalid?”

Not that Sam could see, but Greg’s smile stretched wide and the DI felt better than he had in a few days.

      “Not really.  The person I’d prefer to fuck up and back down again is a miserable bastard right now and it’s your fault.”

      “Wrong.  And why do you sound crappy?”

      “That was smooth.  For your information, I sound fine.”

      “Try again.  Your pitch is off and so is your word spacing.  What’s the matter?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Don’t start with me, you asshole.”

      “Not telling.”

      “Fuck you!  It’s bad enough that I’m stuck here with the whole friggin’ playschool, I don’t need you chiming in with your own soggy diaper!”

      “Hey!  I’m a free man now, remember.  I can saunter to the loo anytime I want.  Well, mostly anytime I want.  I’m still a little shaky from… well, enough of that.  How’s the weather in Fitton?”

      “What happened?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Do _not_ start this again.” 

      “Not telling.”

Sam’s roar had Arthur diving behind the sofa and Douglas smiling and rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a very worthy performance.

      “You WILL tell me what the fuck happened or so help me I will make sure your dick never sees so much as a chubby for the rest of your completely fuckless life!”

      “Calm down… calm down… I just had a little setback the other day.  Made a stupid decision and didn’t tell Mycroft quickly enough so I… it was just a little setback.”

      “More.”

      “Seriously?  Look, I just tried to sit in one of those big chairs… ok, Mycroft’s got this great entertainment room…”

      “THOSE FUCKING CHAIRS!  You put yourself in one of those no-support douchebag chairs!”

      “You’d want one and you know it!”

      “That’s not the point!  You’re the douchebag for being stupid enough to sit in one!  Why did you pull such a douchy move?”

      “Mycroft needed moral support when he had to talk to Arthur!  He was destroyed when Arthur was upset with him and then Arthur was crying and…”

      “WHAT!  ARTHUR WAS… ARTHUR SHAPPEY!  WHY IN THE FUCK WERE YOU CRYING ON MYCROFT!”

Arthur peeked over the back of the sofa then dropped back down when he saw the look in Sam’s eyes.

      “Would you stop shouting?  What did you expect, anyway?  You run off and Arthur was devastated!  Completely fell apart and he blamed Mycroft.  Blamed him so much he didn’t want to have anything to do with him and you _know_ how that would cripple your brother.  So he got one punch in the head because you left and then another one because he’d hurt Arthur…”

      “Do NOT try and say Mycroft gave an everloving shit that I cut out!  If anything, he friggin’ tangoed you around the room, oh wait, you were too busy screaming in agony from pulling a dickwad stunt like sitting in the douche chair!”

      “Stop calling it a douche chair!  I _like_ that chair!”

      “I’ll bury you in it!”

      “And I’ll be burying Mycroft if you don’t get back here and sort this out!  Between his own completely shredded brain and Arthur’s constant worrying and Sherlock going off his head from being off-balance or unhappy or who the hell knows what, all because you pulled your stupid move, he might just unravel completely!”

      “Mycroft will never unravel!  He can’t!  He’s a big fucking block of cold steel with no moving parts!  That shit’s solid and stands no matter what!”

      “You don’t believe that!  You know it’s not true!  You know him better than, maybe, any of us.  You know the Mycroft that hides down deep and you _know_ he’s not cold or unfeeling.  He feels things to the very bottom of his heart and this is cutting him like a goddam knife!  He’s scattered, sleeping poorly, has a miserable haunted look in his eyes when he forgets himself for a minute…  He needs to talk to you, whether he’s willing to admit it or not and if you don’t get yourself back to London to give him that chance, then you don’t love him as much as you say you do!”

Sam squeezed Arthur’s phone so tightly that Sherlock was fairly certain there would be fingerprints embedded in the casing.  And he really didn’t want to know what was being said in the parts of this conversation that he wasn’t hearing.  This was one time he truly didn’t want to _know_ …

      “Sam?”

      “Shut up.  You just shut the fuck up.”

      “Need the quiet to think?”

      “What part of shut the fuck up didn’t you understand?”

      “All of it.”

      “I fucking hate you, invalid.”

      “No, you don’t.  I’m cute and I’m the only one in this lot that can talk cars with you.”

      “Shit.  You’re right.”

      “Calming down?”

No.  Yes.  A hell of a lot of both.  Sam wanted to punch something and keep punching it until his fists were bloody.  Mycroft was an officious little prick but it was burning a hole inside him to think of his brother suffering.  It always had.  That could always cut him off at the knees and the years hadn’t made things any easier to take.

      “No.”

      “You lie like a champion.  Really, I couldn’t tell at all you were full of shit.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      “Come back.  Talk to him.  Yell at him, let him yell at you.  If nothing changes, then you both gave it a shot and maybe you can try again in a year or two.  But… I don’t think that’s going to happen.  Maybe you never become best friends, but Mycroft wants to know you’re there… have you in the corner of his eye, at least.”

      “I think you’re wrong, Greg.  I’m sorry, but I do.  I think he’s confused right now, upset that I stayed off the radar for so long and he didn’t have a clue.  He’s suffering a lot of memories coming up that haven’t seen the light in a lifetime and they aren’t good ones… but…”

      “You’ll come.”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “You might as well have.  Tomorrow?”

      “You’re really a greedy bastard, aren’t you?”

      “No, I just know that if you have a little time you’ll find a way to convince yourself out of it.”

      “You and Skinny deserve each other, you loser.”

      “We’ll see you tomorrow.  I’ll make sure he’s got transportation waiting for you so you don’t have to hitchhike.”

      “I was thinking of having Martin carry me.”

      “He’s wiry.  I’d put £20 on him making it to the edge of Fitton, at least.”

      “Luckily, I don’t need your foreign Monopoly money enough to take that bet.  He wouldn’t make it to the edge of the driveway.”

      “Oh, meant to ask.  Nice house?”

      “Martin and Arthur are going to be very happy here.”

Martin threw a sofa cushion at his cousin, who fielded it back with a lot more force and knocked Martin into Sherlock, who shoved the pilot back and Martin was fairly certain his brain was getting sloshed around like an olive in a martini.

      “Good.  You being on board with that plan is going to be a big help.”

      “Operation Happy Home is a go.”

      “Yes!  And Sam… thanks.  Really… I’ll talk to you when you’re back here, but I want you to know I really appreciate this.  It’s going to help Mycroft a lot.”

Not something that Sam had a lot of faith in, but… only but, mind you… it might help _him_ a little to see the final nails set this situation, no matter what the endgame turned out to be.

      “Try and keep yourself alive for one more night will you?  If I get back there and Skinny’s in mourning, I’m going to have Sherlock steal you out of the morgue so I can kill you again.”

      “Fair enough.  See you tomorrow.”

      “Yeah… yeah, you will.”

Sam ended the call and tossed the mobile over the sofa, yelling ‘Incoming’ to give Arthur a fighting chance of catching it.

      “Well, that was certainly worth the agony of spending the evening with Sir in his cramped little hovel.”

Which Douglas had started to silently pray _was_ soon to be gifted to the happy couple.  Martin’s flat was deplorable and if anyone deserved a nicely turned out house, perfectly sized for two, it was his captain and steward.  He would happily be adding his own cryptically-supportive voice to the idea when it was broached.

      “One thing about the Circus of Sam… we don’t disappoint!”

Arthur peeked again over the back of the sofa and seeing the coast was clear, jumped up and kept jumping.

      “HURRAY!  THIS IS BRILLIANT!  WE’RE GOING BACK TO LONDON!  WITH DOCTOR SAM!”

      “I think I’ve changed my mind.”      

      “Do _not_ tease him.  I’m the one who has to get him to sleep tonight and it’s going to be hard enough as it is.”

      “Dear me, Martin.  If you need to expand your repertoire of, shall we say, soothing techniques, then I shall happily offer my wealth of experience to your cause.  Let us begin with something simple.  Do you have any almond oil?”

Martin covered his ears and glared at Douglas, who was being given an approving grin by Sam and a horrified scowl by Sherlock.

      Douglas, you’re a man after my own heart.  What say we get back to the party?  I’ve got a deck of cards, a wallet full of cash and a thirst for more.”

      “If that is a challenge, Sherry, it is one I shall surely accept.  Of course, you’ll have to lend some of your filthy lucre to Martin and Arthur because between them they can’t produce a sufficient sum to purchase a slice of moldy cheese.  Not sure about Nick Charles over there… he has the rather minty waft of surplus monies about him, but it might be second-hand from that other brother of his.”

      “They do spend a lot of time hugging and kissing and all sorts of lovey-dovey things just perfect for transferring scent.”

Sherlock and Martin nearly held each other to weep in their disgusted agony, but Arthur beamed in delight at the thought of a happy and affectionate Mycroft and Sherlock, blissfully unaware of just what particular turns brotherly affection could take.

      “Then shall we clear the way for our casino experience.”

      “Sounds good.  And Dougie – you’re going down.”

      “Better men than you have said that, Sherry.  And none have lived to challenge me again.”

      “Martin, are you certain you do not want to revisit your moratorium of using your aircraft to make an escape from Fitton?”

Martin looked at his cousin and had to admit Sherlock made a good point.

      “I might be persuaded.”

__________

The card game lasted until late in the evening and it was a host of very tired men that finally broke into individual directions to get some rest and prepare to return to London.  For Sherrinford’s part, it was actually hard saying goodbye to his new friend, because he’d enjoyed a pleasant, sociable evening and he didn’t have so many friends that saying farewell to one was an easy thing to do.  Maybe, if he was lucky and things worked out marginally well, he could stay in the country at least and drop in along Fitton way for a visit now and then.

      “Doctor Sam?  Are you ok?  I… well, it seems silly saying so now, but if you don’t want to leave tomorrow, then we don’t have to.  We can wait another day, or even two if you’d like.  I’ll even call Greg and tell him so you don’t have to be the one to break the bad news.”

      “It’s ok, Arthur.  I’m just tired and… it was nice hanging around here.  Quiet, had some fun… but Greggy was right.  If I give myself time to think, I will find a way to wiggle out of it, so it’s probably best to just grab the bull by the horns and get this over with.  Now, you go on and get some sleep.  Busy day tomorrow for all of us.”

      “I will, and I get to sleep with Skip, which means it will be the best sleep ever!  But, I want to check your ooze first.”

      “Can you stop calling it ooze?”

      “Is there a better word for it?”

      “No… no, I guess there isn’t.  Ooze it is.”

      “It’s really best not to argue with a part-time doctor’s assistant, Doctor Sam.”

      “I’m finding that out more and more every day.”

__________

At least the morning didn’t start at the crack of dawn, but you could see it if you squinted a little. Sam woke first and took his turn in the shower before greeting the sofa-sleeping Sherlock with a dirty sock dropped on the detective’s face.  Sherlock rose and tossed the sock out of the window, then took his own turn in the shower, mostly to wash his brother’s foot odor off his skin.  As the coffee was just completing its brew cycle, Arthur stumbled into the kitchen and began pulling pots and pans out of the cupboards, more by feel than sight, because his eyes still very much wanted to be asleep, but his brain couldn’t stay in bed knowing people were up and wanting breakfast.  With the smell of Arthur’s cooking in the air, Martin staggered out of the bedroom and grunted at the three other residents before continuing to stagger into the bathroom for his own turn at the hot water.

Four slow and filling breakfasts later, the group was making one final pass through the house to gather their belongings and bid the structure a fond farewell before climbing into the dark sedan that had been patiently waiting to escort them to the airfield where a very sleek and shiny airplane was ready to take them on to London.  Martin swallowed down his ugly envy seeing the gorgeous craft, but remembered that this plane wasn’t crewed by his fiancé or his First Officer, who had surprisingly been not entirely ghastly the night before and…

… and was sitting contentedly in the passenger cabin of this sleek and shiny airplane with a cup of coffee in one hand and a magazine in the other.

      “Douglas!  What in world are you doing here?”

The rest of the party crammed in behind Martin and Arthur’s excited Hurray! was at least yelled away from Martin’s ear.

      “I’m bored and a free trip to London, with gratis accommodations, might make me a bit less bored.”

      “You can’t go to London!”

      “Give me one reason why not.”

      “I… well, there’s… it’s like this…”

      “Just as I thought.  Ah, Sherry… care to join me in a bit of morning pick-me-up?  The coffee’s actually not bad.”

Sam, wearing an honestly-pleased smile on his unshaved face, shouldered by Martin and dropped slowly into the seat across the aisle from Douglas.

      “This is Brilliant!  No, it’s Skip Brilliant!  Douglas is coming with us to London!  This is going to be… brilliant!”

Arthur bounded down the aisle and took the seat just behind Douglas, where he could lean forward and be part of the older men’s goings-on.

      “We’re doomed, Sherlock.”

      “Have faith, Martin.  Douglas will be staying in Mycroft’s house.  With Mycroft.  In a foul mood.”

      “You’re right, one of them won’t survive.”

      “And either way, we win.”  


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft lay awake staring at the ceiling and wondering if it was the height of cowardice to manufacture a situation that required his attention at some location on the other side of the world so he could avoid the maelstrom tomorrow would bring.  His Gregory’s face, so brightly lit, as he told the story of convincing his pestilent brother to return to London… how optimistic he was that this travesty of a familial relationship could somehow be refashioned into something positive.  It was utterly ridiculous, but seeing the hope, the _belief_ in his lover’s face, he had expressed his own support for the upcoming discussion.  Damn Gregory and his glorious smile!

      “I can hear you thinking.”

Damn Gregory and his glorious ears!

      “Just ruminating on a matter of state, my dear.  Return to sleep, you are in need of your rest.”

Although it made the room a little crowded, Mycroft had not had his concussion bed removed so he could share the room with his partner.  He would prefer to share his rest closer to the heat of the one he loved, but his Gregory was still so very fragile and the bureaucrat already feared that the hours he had spent lying next to the most exquisite body in existence had somehow negatively impacted the Detective Inspector’s health.

      “I can’t sleep knowing you’re not doing it yourself.  Come over here and talk to me.”

      “Gregory, you are still recovering from our little faux pas with the entertainment room.  You do not need me further insulting your body and slowing its healing.”

      “Need isn’t the same as want.  I _want_ you insulting my body and being really filthy and wrong about it, too.”

      “Your libido has not suffered any weakening from your episode, has it?”

      “Nope.  That’s the one part of me that stays strong no matter what happens.  And maybe I just want to be able to be a proper partner and give you a cuddle while we talk about what’s bothering you.”

Well, his Gregory certainly wasn’t hesitant about using his most powerful ammunition during a conflict.  What a splendid man he had taken to his side…

      “Very well, but you will notify me immediately if you experience any pain or discomfort.”

Mycroft took his pyjama-clad form from his temporary bed to Lestrade’s and very cautiously took his place against his lover’s warm frame.

      “There, that’s better.  You know, even when we were… having trouble… I used to think about this.  Just me and you lying in bed together.  It hurt miserably when I thought I’d never get a chance to find out what if felt like but now, I don’t think I’ll ever sleep as well as when you’re right here with me.”

      “You are not alone in that sentiment, my dear, and I, too, often envisioned nights together wrapped in your embrace.  And the loveliness of shared mornings… the night I visited you in your home to share a drink and evening of conversation… the conflict I felt leaving you erupted painfully the next morning, seeing the joy of Martin and Arthur      as they began their day together.  My departure from you was a gross misstep on my part and the sting of that pusillanimity never fully left me.  I longed for you desperately, but was so unsure, so hesitant… I did not feel worthy of your companionship for conversation, let alone for something more profound.  And I proved that unworthiness, time and time again.  That I can enjoy this now and look forward to a lifetime of it… I have yet to properly process, let alone accept, the bounty of my good fortune.”

Lestrade stroked Mycroft’s arm and wondered if either of them would be able to fully put their past behind them.  He thought it probably wouldn’t happen, but that may not necessarily be a bad thing.  Keep the reminders on hand so neither of them ever made those mistakes again.

      “I never saw you as unworthy, Mycroft.  If anything, I always saw it as the other way around.  You’re… you’re up there in the clouds, up in a place that seems almost magical, wow… I sound like Arthur… and I’m standing squarely with my feet on the street.  As pitiful as it sounds, part of me understood why you did the things you did.  I wasn’t worth your respect, no matter how good my job or the difference I made in the city… it was so far beneath what you did that… how could you treat me as anything _but_ a dog at your feet?  Yes, I know that’s not a healthy way to think, but it wasn’t a healthy time for me.  And early on… I had more confidence then, but it still baffled me that you were interested.  I’m not a bad catch, but for someone in the clouds… it didn’t make a lot of sense.  I was happy to go with it, though, until… well, until things fell apart.  Not that I was ever able to let you go… as ashamed as I was of that, I still couldn’t let you go.  Like I said… not a healthy time for me.”

Mycroft had no idea how his lover could be so completely wrong in his thinking, but he grieved terribly for it, because he had contributed so greatly to those ideas.  He had told his Gregory, had he not, that he was not worthy.  That he was unfit for his work and certainly unfit for a romantic partnership.  He had instigated a romance, then denied his lover repeatedly as if it was a game, one for which the Detective Inspector had no copy of the rules.  John had not believed him ‘good’ for his Gregory and he could not disagree.  He had _not_ been good for his lover and, unquestionably, would never be, himself, worthy of the man’s love and devotion.  But his mind was now clear, his intentions unclouded, his purpose fixed and inviolate.  He would _be_ good for his partner.  He would do whatever was required to do penance for his past atrocities and never commit those sins again.  And he would ensure, through whatever means necessary, that his beloved never thought ill of himself again.

      “And I believed, and still do, that you are far too virtuous, honorable, handsome and vital for an individual like myself.  I am not a man who, at my core, is an admirable person.  I have never believed that of myself and, despite my efforts and successes to promote order, I cannot be classed, in any sense, as a reputable creature.  However, when I am with you, I understand what it _means_ to be such a man and have an example to which I can aspire.  Though I see you, as you say, high in the clouds, I give thanks each day that you reach down to touch me with your grace.”

      “We’re a little fucked up.”

      “Hmmm… I agree.  But how lucky are we that we are perfectly positioned to provide assistance to each other on this issue.”

      “And we’ve got a _long_ time to work on it.  But, this wasn’t why you weren’t sleeping, love.  Is it Sam?  If you’re not ready to talk to him, I’m sure Sherlock and John can put him up for a few days…”

Mycroft sighed and contemplated, briefly, accepting Lestrade’s offer of time.  But, time was not, unfortunately, going to make the situation easier to manage.

      “No, this is a conversation best undertaken sooner than later.  There is a strain, a tension, in our family that shall not find relief until this matter is settled.”

      “No one’s going to die if that takes another few days.”

Lestrade instinctively tried to roll on his side to embrace his lover and gave himself a mental kick, feeling the first stab of pain.  A quick pat on his chest provided him with the second best option, which was Mycroft carefully curling around his body and, after sliding a hand under Lestrade’s pyjama top, beginning to idly caress his stomach.

      “I do not look forward to this, Gregory, I shall not lie.  However, I shall not look forward to it more in a few days.  It is time for me to put this to rest.  A situation I could not, applying the full breadth and depth of my mental faculties, ever have predicted I would have to navigate.”

      “You can just agree to live and let live.  Keep each other at arm’s length.  When you only knew him as Sam, I know you didn’t particularly like him, but besides making you insane sometimes, there wasn’t any real trouble between the two of you.  There’s no reason you can’t go back to that, is there?  He can do whatever he wants to do, gad about with Sherlock or Arthur and, barring a family get-together for a holiday or birthday, you don’t really have to interact very much.  It’s not unusual, love.  Families don’t always get along, carrying old grudges and slights, and people just go their merry way, ignoring the ones they despise.”

      “How simple you make it sound.”

      “It _can_ be.  But, I have a feeling you don’t think you can take that option.”

      “Would that I could.  Neither Sherrinford nor I would be satisfied with any equilibrium that had not been thoroughly negotiated and analyzed through every detail.  The incompleteness of an unfought-for armistice would nag and niggle and there would be no peace without first plastering over the holes and gaps.  I cannot deny that what you describe may be the best situation and the one into which we ultimately settle, but we must traverse our own process to reach that point.”

      “Fair enough.  Do you… do you know how you _want_ things to turn out?  You’ve got my support for whatever you feel is best for you, so don’t worry that I won’t be behind you whatever you decide to do, but I’m curious what’s on your mind.  What _you’re_ actually hoping for.”

      “Thank you, my dear.  And, I wish I could provide you with a definitive answer to your question.  That, I suspect, is the root of my insomnia.  I do not know what I wish from Sherrinford.  He is… chaotic, irreverent, unseemly, buffoonish, vulgar…”

      “That describes me after a few pints.”

      “Gregory, you are in no manner similar to that capering baboon.”

      “Might be nice if I was.  Sam’s smart, makes people laugh, is _very_ good at his job, isn’t afraid to say what he thinks or stand up for what he believes.  And he cares a hell of a lot about people, even though he can be a little incompetent about showing it.”

None of which Mycroft could argue, now that he had settled in his own mind the degree of his brother’s medical competency.  And nothing that had appreciably changed since their childhood.  His brother remained a set of highly contradictory qualities that were difficult to successfully evaluate as a group to bestow a comprehensive score.  To Sherrinford’s extreme credit, however, was his acceptance by members of their small clan, at least among the non-Holmes members, whose opinions carried an appreciable amount of weight.  They viewed him with no pre-conceptions or past experiences and found him agreeable.  His Gregory found the man comforting and engaging, a great boon to his healing process.  John considered him a friend and Arthur… Arthur adored the jackanapes.  Only the most selfish, unfeeling person would deny them contact with someone with whom they enjoyed interacting.

Two characteristics freely and often applied to _him_.

      “He _is_ a conundrum, that I shall not deny.  And I do not intend to greet my brother with a closed mind; I shall give him full opportunity to discuss with me whatever matters we feel must be broached.”

      “And you hit him with what’s bothering you, too.  No one expects you to just sit there and let him have his say without giving yours back in return.  This is your chance to really tell him how you feel, what you think, what’s on your mind… let him have it in full color see what happens.  No one’s saying you don’t have legitimate grievances or that you have to hold back and let him off without landing a few good punches of your own.”

      “I doubt the situation shall come to fisticuffs.”

      “I’m not ruling anything out at this point.  Sometimes that’s the best way to let off the pressure anyway.  Beat on each other a little to get the anger and frustration out of the brain so you can think again.  Besides, I know you can take him, no matter what he says.”

Mycroft looked up at his lover who was smiling brightly again and felt a warmth settle into his bones.  How it struck at his heart that he now had support.  True, unwavering support in the face of whatever turmoil he might suffer.  It was so completely new and such a treasured source of strength… he had lived without this for so very long and, now, he was not entirely certain how he had survived.

      “If our discussion does devolve into physical attacks, I shall try to alert you beforehand so that you may establish a wagering structure to supplement our income.”

      “Now that’s thinking!  My Mycroft is the smartest man in the world and is going to win me lots of money so I can buy new shoes.”

      “And what is amiss with your current shoes?”

      “Ummmm… they’re ugly?”

      “That is a tremendous hardship to bear, I do admit.”

      “I need something that doesn’t look like an invalid’s shoes when you take me wheeling through the park.”

      “Something warm and fetching… I think an appropriate pair can be found to satisfy those criteria.  Are you sufficiently provided with hats, gloves and scarves?  John did note that you might feel unusually chill with your diminished lack of activity.”

      “Could probably do with more.  I’ll ask Arthur to get on that for me.”

Mycroft couldn’t hold back the smile that the thought of Arthur’s purchased or hand-crafted winter accessories brought to his lips.

      “You would be resplendent in his selections.”

      “You wouldn’t be able to lose me in a crowd, that’s for sure.”

      “Or in the dark of night, for I am somewhat confident there would be a measure of luminescent fibers woven into the design.”

      “Yep, glow-in-the-dark is definitely going to happen.”

      “When Arthur and Martin are blessed with children, I suspect a vaguely throbbing green glow shall be the least colorful wardrobe option you shall be gifted.”

      “I’m going to set fashion trends.  Those little tykes are going to have me in grass skirt, coconut-shell bra and handmade crown five minutes after their dads bring them for a visit.”

And Mycroft couldn’t help but curl tighter against Lestrade at the thought.  His Gregory would be a magnificent, albeit youthful, grandfather to Martin and Arthur’s children.  The future was so suffused with potential joy that his imagination could not fully craft a coherent picture.  And how breathtaking would his Gregory appear, holding a small, swaddled bundle of their own…

      “Someone’s happy.  Look at that gorgeous smile.”

      “I truly am incapable of containing my bliss when you are the cause, my dear.”

      “Neither am I, when you’re getting my bliss running.  And, one day soon, that bliss is going to be making a big mess all over this tidy hospital bed.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, how easily you turn a sweetly-domestic fantasy into something tawdry.”

      “Problem?”

      “Not at all, that was statement of admiration.”

      “Good, then you won’t object to a nice, happy mess of your own before bedtime.”

      “You are far too debilitated for…”

      “Don’t you dare.  The day I’m so beat down I can’t show my lover a nice time is the day you can pick out my coffin.  Now, why don’t you sit up right across my lap where I can see you easily and have everything I want in easy reach?”

      “Absolutely not.  The jostling alone would be very detrimental…    

      “Then you’ll have be careful, won’t you?  And very, very still.  Just how still can you be, Mycroft?  How good’s your control?”

And, of course, his love had to smile wickedly as he offered the challenge.  A spectacular partner…

      “It is exceptional.  As you shall soon discover.”

      “Well then, I look forward to finding out.”

__________

Sherlock, Douglas, Sam and Arthur confined to a small, enclosed space had to be some form of internationally-prohibited torture.  Martin massaged his temples and wondered if his fiancé could find any more headache reliever among the aircraft’s provisions.  It didn’t help that he was absolutely positive that the one time the plane’s First Officer came back to check on them, the man was laughing at his distress.  Rude.

      “Skip, we’re almost there!  LONDON!  And I won a $1.13 from Doctor Sam because I made the best happy parrot sound of anyone!”

Ah yes, the animal sounds competition.  Arthur versus… Arthur.  Pain pills number three and four.

      “That’s wonderful, love.  You did a fine job.”

      “Brilliant!  And it’s early, so we’ll have lots of time to visit with Greg and Doctor Watson before Mycroft gets home, that is, if he’s not home already, because he might have stayed home just because he knew we were coming and wanted to say hello right away.  Of course, that would also mean he’d have to talk to Doctor Sam right away and he might not want to do that, so he could have gone to work instead.  Wherever work is.  Probably somewhere very nice.  I’ll make him a picture for his wall, anyway, though.”

      “Mycroft will love that, I’m sure.  Or a nice family of origami cats or something for his desk.”

      “Yes!  I’ll get right on that just as soon as we go shopping for some paper.  And I could use more glue.  I think I have enough feathers…”

      “Arthur, why would cats need feathers?”

      “Silly Skipper, it’s not for the cats, it’s for… other things.  I like to be prepared.”

Say, for example, to have enough craft supplies on hand to manage his emotions if the worst should happen between Sam and Mycroft.  Martin didn’t need the Holmes deductive abilities to know that particular fact about his fiancé.

      “That’s very wise.  And here we go… it looks like we’re going to land, soon.  Why don’t you sit here by me and we can relax until we’re on the ground?”

      “You know, Skip… it feels rather odd being on a plane and not having to work.”

      “You’ve been serving people from the little fridge and pantry all flight!”

      “Yeah, but that’s because I wanted to, not because I had to.  There’s a difference.”

      “But, you did _exactly_ the same thing as you do when you work.”    

      “Skip, I think I know a little better than you about what is and isn’t the same about being a cabin steward or not.”

      “True.  My mistake.”

      “That’s ok.  You don’t make them often.”

__________

Things that Douglas had to concede to Mycroft Holmes.  He ensured his guests traveled in comfort and he had a very impressive home.  And they hadn’t even stepped inside, yet.  That light fixture was quite handsome… and pricey.

      “Here we are!  Hurray!  I almost feel like I’m coming home to my real home and not my holiday home.  Actually, I’ve got rather a lot of homes now, with Mum’s and Skip’s flat and Mycroft and Greg’s and I’m going to count yours, too, Mr. Sherlock, because I stayed there for quite a bit helping Skip get over his little problem and really want to visit again and watch films on your sofa and do experiments, though we didn’t get to do any while I was there last time, but I’m very keen to do a few next time I visit.”

      “I will alert Molly to set aside something for us to test next time you are in London.”

      “Brilliant!  She’s very nice and she must have lots of fun and science-y things to work on besides… people.”

      “ _Besides_ people?”

      ‘”Is that a problem, Mr. Sherlock?”

      “Are fluids considered people?”

      “Do they come from people?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’ll have to think about it.”

      “I anxiously await your decision.”

Sherlock took the opportunity of a thinking, therefore distracted, Arthur to propel the steward forward and through the front door of Mycroft’s home, not stopping until Arthur was reunited with Lestrade and John.

      “Doctor Watson!  Greg!”

Arthur rushed forward and gave John a large hug, then delivered a smaller one to Lestrade who felt himself becoming surprisingly emotional from the display of affection.  That had been happening a lot lately and he hoped it was just a passing thing and not some strange biochemical change that his injuries had promoted.  It was sometimes hard to keep his emotions in check and that was not going to be helpful when he was back on the job.

      “Arthur!  Good to see you.”

      “It’s good to see you, too.  How are your holes?”

Breaking out laughing in this situation was not an example of loss of emotional control, so Lestrade didn’t mind giggling like a maniac, especially since Sam walked into the room right after Arthur and started laughing first.

      “My holes are excellent, lad.  Thanks for asking.  Mycroft’s been taking very good care of them.”

John smacked Lestrade’s arm and waggled a finger at Sam who was preparing a response.

      “Brilliant!  I knew Mycroft would do a good job of making you feel better.  And, now, Mycroft and Doctor Watson can have some help making you feel better since Doctor Sam’s here!”

Arthur did a little dance that Martin steered towards a chair to make room for other people to crowd into the room.

      “Oh!  And we brought Douglas with us.  Actually Douglas brought himself, but on the same plane as us, so it worked out brilliantly.  Say hello, Douglas.”

      “Hello, Douglas.”

      “That’s actually a bit funny.”

Douglas rolled his eyes, then surveyed the available seats, snaring the most comfortable-looking one for himself.

      “I am nothing if not possessed of a sophisticated wit.  Oh, and you must be the poor bastard tethered to Mycroft Holmes.  My condolences.”

Lestrade laughed again and had to admit that Mycroft’s description of Martin’s First Officer was spot on.

      “Thanks for that.  Mourning will involve as little weeping and wailing as possible and no dark clothing required.”

      “I’m starting to like you already.”

Actually, Douglas was liking a lot of things already, including the immaculate, though tasteful, residence and the well-provided sick room in which he was sitting. Points to the ponce for keeping an agreeable home.  And more points for taking as a partner in his mating ritual someone who actually appeared to lack the requisite Holmes tentpole up his ass.  Why Arthur had no fewer than four self-composed songs with ‘Greg’ in the title was beginning to make sense.

      “Well, the more allies I have the happier I am.  Sam!  You utter disaster of a human being.  How are you?”

Sam answered with two fingers, one on each hand, and a series of hip motions that made Martin put his hands over Arthur’s eyes to keep him from going blind.

      “That good, huh?  Guess your little holiday didn’t do you any harm.”

      Unlike you, you miserable invalid.  You’re out of my sight for five minutes and you nearly burst your pipes.  Don’t expect any sympathy from me for any aches and pains you’ve got.  You deserve every one and the few more I’m going to give you when I can punch the shit out of you without an audience watching.”

      “Notice I’m not shaking.”

      “That’s what the itching powder I’m carrying is for.  Get it right up there where the sun don’t shine and good luck getting it out.  You’re going to be doing the little doggy booty scoot across the rug and I _will_ be taking pictures.”

Arthur’s giggles lit up Lestrade’s face with an even bigger grin and he felt some of the recent anxiety-laced cobwebs being shaken out of his head.  Apparently, having access to the steward’s boundless positive energy was something he needed right now to keep life in perspective.

      “And I’m sure someone on the Internet would buy them.  50-50 split?”

      “Yeah, sounds fair.  Now, the engaged duo over there is going to find Douglas a room to bunk in, Sourlock is going to take the pipsqueak to their room and spend some time making John feel like the lovely damsel he is and I’m going to give you my own brand of medical attention.  Gloves and lube _will_ be involved.”

Everyone in the room began to object simultaneously, except Sherlock, who wasn’t entirely certain as to the nature of his brother’s almost-invisible frown, but decided Sherrinford did not frown without reason.  It was not sufficiently self-aggrandizing for his normal temperament.

      “I will assist John in making tea.  Martin may join us.  Arthur will exercise his talents in hospitality and find Mr. Richardson a corner of the cellar to place a bedroll and then they shall join us.  _You_ shall not be given tea, no matter the stridency of Arthur’s pleas to the contrary.”

Sam smirked at Sherlock and bowed slightly before ‘get the fuck out’-ing everyone from the room.  Then, he found a latex glove and gave it a good snap out of Lestrade’s sight to make his patient involuntarily flinch.

      “Bastard.”

      “King Bastard to you, sickly.  Now that I’ve got myself a little revenge, how about you tell me just what I’m in for when Skinny makes it home tonight.  Or maybe I should ask _if_ he’s coming home?  I haven’t ruled out the idea that he’s hopping the first flight to Argentina to hide out until I get bored of waiting.”

      ‘No, he’s not hopping any flight.  Well, at least that wasn’t his plan when he left this morning.  But, I won’t say he’s happy about today, either.”

      “Well, that makes two of us, so why couldn’t you assholes just leave us alone to get on with our lives?  I have no idea why everyone thinks we have to have some epic confrontation, let alone why that’s going to make anything better between us.  We are what we are and that’s the end of the story, Greg ol’ pal.”

      “That’s bollocks.  Neither of you knows who the other person is to even make a good decision about anything at this point.”

      “We know all we need to know.  He wishes he could squash me under his heel and I don’t want to put up with him trying.”

      “Mycroft doesn’t want to squash you.”

      “Try that again and use some sincerity in your voice this time.”

      “It’s true!”

      “Not being _able_ to squash me and not _wanting_ to are two different things.  He spent his entire childhood trying to squash me, stab me, do whatever he could to me and I think half of his perpetual constipation came from the fact that he couldn’t actually succeed.  If I’d just rolled over and died, he’d be a much happier person right about now.  Honestly, he’s not even really upset that I cut out, except for the fact that he wasn’t the cause of it, so he can’t put that in his win column.”

      “You’re insane!  Mycroft was… devastated when you left him!”

      “He’s devastated whenever he doesn’t get what he wants and he’s really _tried_ to get it.  Mycroft Holmes does not lose, doesn’t fail, so when it happens, it hits him hard.  Mycroft and me are oil and water, always have been.  Hasn’t changed, so I have no clue what you think we’re going to accomplish with a sit down.”

Lestrade huffed a loud breath, but wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that.  He was actually a little worried that bringing the two titans into one room again might genuinely end in bloodshed.  Mycroft’s cool unflappability seemed to completely unravel within minutes of being near the doctor and there was no telling what that would bring for this conversation.  But… maybe that could actually be classed as helpful.  Mycroft’s icy exterior was an effective thing for his lover to hide behind and Sam tore through it as fast, if not faster than Arthur.  Mycroft wouldn’t be _able_ to hide and was going to have everything in him exposed and on display for a kicking.  That might be exactly what his partner needed, but it wasn’t going to be pleasant or pretty to watch.

      “Mycroft talked about an equilibrium, though he didn’t know where it would fall.  He wants to try, though.”

      “And how much of that is you and Arthur wanting him to try and not actually his own mind on the subject?  Mycroft would do anything to make you two jerks happy, so did you even think he’s not doing this for himself?”

Yes.

      “No.  That’s not what’s going on.”

      “So you say.  Fuck it… doesn’t matter now, since I’m here and you’re stuck with it.  But don’t blame if things wind up worse than before.  I’ll be in sipping cocktails in Fiji with one or more lovely ladies to brighten my spirits, but you’ll have to deal with an even grumpier Mycroft.  Have fun with that.”

Not something Lestrade wanted to think about, so he wouldn’t.  Except he _would_ and if Mycroft got hurt, _he_ was going to suffer just as miserably. 

      “Would it kill you to be optimistic?”

      “Yes.  Yes it would.”

      “And you wonder why you’re not getting any tea.”

      “Since I hate the crap, no, I’m not wondering.”

      “How can you hate tea!  It’s in your genes!”

      “The only thing in my jeans is something that would make you feel so tiny and feeble, it’d break my hypocratic oath to show it to you.  Now shut the fuck up and let me get a look at you.  John better not have undone any of my excellent work.”

Lestrade made a rude noise but obliged with a little quiet.  The man was here and willing to talk, so pressuring him wasn’t going to help matters, in fact, it might do just the opposite.  The DI suspected the stubborn streak in the doctor was exceeded only by… well, he couldn’t think of anything more stubborn and defiant than Sam, even Sherlock, so pushing him was _not_ a good idea.

      “You’re getting flabby.  Serves you right.”

Maybe a little pushing was ok.  Such as right off the roof…

__________

      “Well, what do you think?”

Douglas looked around the very comfortable room and had to admit that a few nights at Chez Holmes could be quite enjoyable.

      “I’ve seen youth hostels that were better appointed.”

      “Oh… well, we can look for another room, if you’d like.  I thought you might like this one since it has a window that has a nice view and it’s got a very soft bed and there’s a lot of blue in there, and you must like blue since that’s your uniform color and the sky is blue, too, so…”

      “Thank you, Arthur, your estate agent talents are, as always, brilliant in intensity.”

      “Then, it’s ok?”

      “I shall endure.  Now, might I assume the rest of the house is much the same as this?”

      “Well, there’s not so much blue, and not all the rooms have beds or windows, but… yes.”

      “Then you will give me a tour so I may verify your assessment.”

      “Oh… yes!  Brilliant!  I love Mycroft’s house.  It’s so… Mycroft.  It’s very posh, but it’s comfortable, like a museum where you can have popcorn and watch the telly in your pyjamas.”

      “And will such activities be on our agenda for this trip?”

      “I hope so!  I haven’t watched a film with Greg and Doctor Watson and Mycroft in… days!  And Mycroft has a brilliant kitchen for me to cook in or we can have take-away, which is very good and I know all the restaurant workers are very nice people because we always have a little chat when I call and there are games we can play and I need to go shopping, so we can see the art shop Mycroft and I like, and maybe the chocolate shop, too.  They make the most wonderful chocolates in the world and we’re going to have them for the wedding… WEDDING!... and…”

      “And we’re here for a day or two, Arthur, not a fortnight.  Now, show me the limits of the bars of my cage and take the cover off one of the pillows for me, will you?”

      “Why do want a naked pillow?”

      “Oh, just thinking that if I see something particularly eye-catching that the rather regal vulture wouldn’t miss… a sack might be a handy thing to have, don’t you think.”

      “Douglas, you’re not going to steal from Mycroft.  That’s not nice.”

      “Steal has such negative connotations.”

      “No, Douglas.”

      “Oh, fine.  Spoil my fun, as usual.”

      “Stealing isn’t fun.”

      “I respectably disagree.”

      “I’m going to be watching you, Douglas, and I’m going to check your pillows every morning to make sure you haven’t hidden anything in them.”

      “Feel free.  You won’t find a thing.  Oh, by the by, Arthur, do you think Mycroft has any spare oh… let’s say, grocery sacks lying about that I might borrow?”

      “I think he does, actually.  How many do you need?”

      “How big is this house?”

      “Why is that important for grocery sacks?”

      “Oh, Arthur, do you really want me to do the sums?”

      “NO!  I mean, no, that won’t be necessary, thank you, Douglas.  Maths wasn’t my best subject in school.  I’ll get two grocery sacks to be safe.”

      “I think that’s wise.”

__________

Arthur took Douglas through the house, pointing out his favorite places, especially Mycroft’s study, and Douglas took the moment, as Arthur beamed happily, to do a little probing.

      “Arthur, Sherry and that brother of his, not Dupin, but the other one… what exactly is the bone of contention between them?”

      “Come again?”

      “Why exactly is this summit meeting being held?”

      “Oh!  Oh… well, it’s really very sad.  When Doctor Sam left home, Mycroft got upset because Doctor Sam didn’t tell him he was leaving or where he was going and never wrote any letters or made any phone calls and Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock didn’t know if he was even alive!  Then, when, Doctor Sam became Greg’s doctor, he didn’t tell anyone who he was and Mycroft only found out when Doctor Sam got a little silly from some medicine and Mycroft pointed a gun at him, which was actually very scary, and then… well, Mycroft and Doctor Sam don’t get along well.  They didn’t get along even before Mycroft knew he was talking to his brother, and when he found out… it wasn’t much better.  Actually, it was worse.”

      “I must admit that they don’t seem to have highly congruent personalities.”

      “Does that mean they don’t get along?”

      “Yes, it does.”

      “Then you’re right.  Doctor Sam is a bit silly and Mycroft isn’t terribly fond of silly, except when he’s being silly with Greg or Greg is being silly with him, especially if it’s a bit naughty silly and then Mycroft is _very_ happy with the silliness.  And Mycroft did say rather mean things about Doctor Sam’s ability to be a doctor, which didn’t help much.  But, Doctor Sam also seems to enjoy making Mycroft angry, which isn’t helpful, either, especially since he’s really good at it.”

      “And this reunion is to what… clear the air?”

      “They need to say they’re sorry to each other and then get on with being brothers.”

      “Arthur, you do realize that brothers are not always friendly towards each other.  Shared parentage does not ensure actual sibling affection.”

      “It doesn’t?”

      “No, so don’t be too put out if this backfires radically and you have to pry the two apart like combatant badgers.”

      “What!  No… no, I won’t believe that Mycroft and Doctor Sam are going to be badgers. They’re going to forgive each other and then get onto being proper brothers like Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock, not that they’re the best examples of proper brothers, but they don’t fight with each other… well, they do that sometimes, I suppose… but, it’s a different kind of fighting and it’s better than Mycroft and Doctor Sam.”

Douglas had little internal prohibition against teasing the steward, but he took no pleasure from seeing Arthur hurt and this situation had a great potential for Arthur’s proverbial balloon to be spectacularly burst.  Best to keep an eye on the lad and be prepared to offer a kind word when it became necessary, because Martin would likely dither his way into incomprehensibility and what good was that for poor Arthur’s bruised heart?  It was a fortunate thing that he decided to join this particular circus… someone had to keep an eye on the practical matters and he was the most likely candidate from this motley assemblage to take on the task.  And his fee would be exceptionally reasonable.  Arthur did mention chocolates, did he not?

__________

      “Well, you aren’t dying.”

      ‘You sound disappointed.”

      “Means I can’t just head off to a bar and get my day’s drinking started early.”

      “Poor Sam, the working man.”

      “Life is cruel.”

      “It’s crueler when you’ve been shot, then carved up like a Christmas goose.”

      “Want some cheese with that whine?”

      “Maybe.  John’s been making me eat healthy things.”

      “Meaning tasteless things.”

      “Yep.”

      “Ok, the bad influence is back in town, so let’s see if we can do something about that.  Hold on.”

Sam peeked behind the bed and then in the closet, pulling out the wheelchair he found and setting it up.

      “Let’s take a ride.”

Lestrade grinned broadly and slowly sat up to swing his legs over the side of the bed.  Accepting a supporting arm from Sam, it was only a few steps to the wheelchair and then the two were off towards the kitchen, where the rest of the house’s temporary residents were busily debating the course of the day, mostly through the technique of waving emphatically with biscuits and scowling darkly over the tops of ceramic mugs.

      “Greg!  You’re out of bed!”

      “Piece of sh… crap tried to make a getaway, but I nabbed him before he got too far.  Now, I have to keep him in eyesight or he’ll be in Dallas by bedtime.”

Sam parked Lestrade by the table and plucked the biscuit out of Sherlock’s fingers to pass to the wheelchair-bound DI.

      “Arthur, give me a hand with coffee for Professor Xavier over there.”

      “Hey!  Points for the wheelchair, but I am _not_ bald.  Got plenty on top, thank you very much.”

      “Too bad it’s covering a big empty space.  Finish your cookie and if that yap stays shut, you may get something even worse for you to eat.”

Lestrade started to raise his hands in triumph, quickly rethinking before he did something very stupid, and raised his thumbs in approval instead.  John shook his head and gave The Detective Inspector a chastising look, but only got Lestrade’s big smile in return.  The doctor suddenly had a lot of sympathy for Sam’s wife, because it was very clear who had been the ‘mean’ parent in that family.

      “Well, Sherry, while you unleash Arthur’s coffee onto the world, why don’t you jump into the fray and weigh in on which is the better option for today’s entertainment.  The current offerings include a puppet show, a stroll through an assuredly enjoyable section of the city’s sewers and Doctor Watson’s scintillating offering of tea and a good book, highly exciting chap that Doctor Watson.  Care to cast your vote?”

      “I’ll be at the nearest bar.”

      “Doctor Sam… it’s a bit early for a little drink.”

      “That’s why I’m going to have a big one.  And then we can go to your puppet show.”

      “Hurray!  But how did you know that one was _my_ idea?”

      “Lucky guess.  Invalid, you got any problem with basil?”

      “Basil who?”

      “You are a complete fucktard.  Sorry, Arthur.”

      “That’s ok.  What are you making?”

      “Cheese.”

Arthur watched Sam put onion, tomatoes, red peppers from a jar, olives, lots of cheese and pesto on bread and grill it in a skillet until the cheese was melted and it was put on a plate, cut in half and dropped on the table along with Lestrade’s coffee.

      “There.  Cheese.  And some other crap to make John less fidgety.  So, we’ve got puppets on our schedule and…”

      “I will not suffer puppets in my day.”

      “No, you won’t, Sherlock.  You’re staying here and having sex with John.”

      “Acceptable.”

John put his head on the table and groaned, earning a commiserative pat from Douglas.   He was distressed thinking about Sherlock and sex, also.

      “Good.  So, puppets and whatever other trouble we can get into.  Which could be a lot, so someone make sure Skinny’s credit card is on hand if we need to get sprung from jail or pay for damages inflicted from wild and wacky frolicking.  Douglas, you’re with us, right?”

      “Oh, this is not an adventure I would miss for any amount of book reading or second-hand sexual proclivity.”

      “But, Doctor Sam, what about Greg?  He’s going to be lonely if everyone is having fun except him.”

      “Got your magic phone with you?”

Arthur’s ecstatic gasp made more than one person laugh and the steward nearly tore his trousers ripping the phone out of his pocket.

      “I do!  Greg can come with us on my phone and watch the puppets and shop with us and sightsee with us and that’s absolutely brilliant!”

      “And I’ll borrow your phone for my bar stop, so he can remember what it’s like to actually have a life.”

      “Can’t I go to the pub, too?”

Martin and Douglas’s frantic waving and mouthing ‘NO!’ was as ignored as handily as anyone who had met Sam would have expected.

      “Of course!  We can have a nice little drink together while your fiancé and his other better half go off to have their prostate tested or something.”

      “Hurray!  I get to go with Doctor Sam to a pub!  And Greg will be there too, on my phone!”

Which pleased Lestrade to no end.  Even if he could get around a little better right now, he had a suspicion that witnessing the great Arthur-Sam pub adventure was something best done at a safe distance.  And having Sam as cheerful as possible was probably a good thing with the decidedly un-cheerful night he would have once Mycroft came home.

__________

      “Already done with the sex?  Seriously, John… that’s pathetic.”

John glared at his injured friend and made a gesture that isn’t taught in medical school.  Once the plan for the day had been set, it didn’t take long for the Fitton contingent plus Sam to grab jackets and get started on their activities, with Sherlock dragging John away to the bedroom the moment John had gotten Lestrade settled back into bed.

      “At least I _had_ sex.”

      “Don’t sound so superior… you never know what’s happening in here when you’re not around.”

      “And I like it that way.  But… and I’m only asking as your doctor…”

      “Let’s say it’s a little one-sided right now, but I think that might be changing soon.”

      “How soon?”

      “How am I supposed to know that?  But, there’s some… _feeling_ down there and a little response when Mycroft’s doing something particularly sexy.”

      “I do _not_ want that image in my head.”

      “I don’t want it in your head either.  He’s all mine and do not forget that.”

      “No worries on that issue.  But, I’m glad to hear things are getting back to normal.  Don’t expect your bacchanalian debacle to occur in the next week or so, but it’s a good sign.  A very good sign.”

      “Mycroft thinks so.  Maybe I’m not as young and handsome as his boy toy, but I have a few tricks in my bag.  I’m going to need them, too.  Even when I’m back at 100%, I can’t compete with someone like Edgar.  Gotta have something on my side to help even the scales and experience isn’t a bad balancer.”

Even though John knew what to expect, it was hard to hear his friend say things like that about himself.  The negativity and emotional downswings had been fairly few, so far, but they did show up now and again and would likely worsen as Lestrade healed and suffered the frustrations of the slow pace and the increasing pains as he was physically pushed to build back his strength.  It was going to be hard for everyone and he had his fingers crossed that Mycroft’s talk with Sam kept the doctor in the vicinity, so there was another person nearby to help with Greg’s  recovery and take some of the weight off his and Mycroft’s shoulders.

      “I’m sure there are plenty of books you can look through for ideas if you run out.”

      “Lots.  First thing I looked for with the tablet Mycroft got me.  Not to mention videos.  I’m building an inventory.”

      “Efficient of you.  Now, do you think you’ll be alright for a bit?  I actually need to run to the flat to get some fresh clothes and Sherlock wants to check on some experiment he left fermenting, literally, I think, in the bathroom.  No more than an hour or so, but if it’s a problem…”

      “I can manage for an hour, John.  I’m not completely feeble.”

      “True, but you also get ideas into your head and I don’t want you trying to walk to the kitchen because you’d like another snack or decide you’re fine to raid Mycroft’s alcohol supply.”

      “Yeah, I have to say that’s not an unreasonable concern.  I won’t, though.  I’ve had enough experience with what it means to do something idiotic and I’m not anxious to have another.  But now that Sam’s back, I bet I can get a boost on my beer ration.”

      “You’re probably right.  I’d better cut back your pain medication.”

      “No!”

      “Oh, calm down.  I raised it only because you did your idiotic thing and I’m just going to pull it back down to where it was before you decided that you could handle more than your body was ready for.  And, it’ll make me happier if Mr. Happy Funtime lets you get a few extra sips of lager.”

      “And I got cheese.”

      “You and Mycroft adopt some kids, Uncle Sam is going to be their best friend.”

Lestrade started sniggering and John joined in at the thought of Sam completely undoing all the prim and proper behaviors Mycroft tried desperately to instill in his imaginary brood.  The defilement of their school uniforms alone was side-splitting to contemplate.

      “Well, that just killed my chances of ever getting kids.  Mycroft’s brain would explode at the thought of Sam dropping by and rolling around with our pack.  The birthday ‘surprises,’ family dinners…”

      “All of which you’d adore.”

      “God help me, but I would.  Kids need a bit of spoiling from a Gran or an uncle or someone.  Not that they wouldn’t get enough from Sherlock.  They’d be up to their eyeballs in… well, eyeballs.”

      “He _would_ be good with kids, wouldn’t he?”

      “Thinking about it?”

      “No… one kid is enough for me now.  Once we settle into more of a pattern, years down the road, it’s something to think about, I suppose.  But not right now.  Can’t leave a baby at home when you’re racing out to chase a murderer.”

      “Strap the kid in one of those child carriers and hoist it on your back.  Give it a tiny toy gun to wave around and a little orange blanket to wrap up in.  Got to start them young if you want them to excel, you know.”

      “I see who I’m _not_ going to for advice if a foundling is ever dropped on our doorstep.”

      “Your loss.  Now, weren’t you leaving?  Right now you’re impeding my ability to dance to the study and get a bottle of scotch.”

      “If I didn’t know, really know, that Mycroft would have you put on 24-hour surveillance and assign guards to that door, I’d be worried.”

      “He would, too.  Big ugly bruisers with no sense of humor whatsoever.  Ok, joke’s over.  Go and do what you have to do; I’ll be fine.”

John tried to give his friend the evil eye as insurance, but it seemed to bounce off of Lestrade’s psychic barrier, so he gave up and resorted to a wagged finger as he left the room to gather up his partner and tend to their errand.  When Lestrade heard the arguing fade and the front door open and close, he heaved a large sigh, which he immediately regretted, then settled back to enjoy the silence.

Which lasted about ten seconds.  Then the silence wasn’t so fun anymore, which made very little sense.  He liked the quiet, loved it, really.  Just him in his flat, a good book in hand, maybe something on the radio to keep him company and all was fine.  More than fine, actually.  It was great.  But now… not as much.  With the constant companionship, he’d gotten used to having someone close by to talk to or listen to or simply be there to share the space.  It was a little unsettling, to be honest and it wasn’t long before he was hoping, even with a good crap movie on the telly trying to keep him company, that someone would come home for a visit.

The one person he _didn’t_ expect to return home was Mycroft, but here was his lover, twenty minutes after Sherlock and John left for Baker Street, strolling into the bedroom, already bereft of jacket and looking like a bloody fortune in his shirtsleeves.

      “And to what do I owe this pleasant surprise, Mr. Holmes?”

The middle Holmes gave his lover a gentle kiss, then settled into a chair by the hospital bed.

      “There was no matter sufficiently pressing that I could not forsake my office for the more agreeable atmosphere of my home.”

      “You knew I was here alone and got spooked, didn’t you.”

Mycroft wondered how such a magnificent man had never been swept up by a more worthy individual than himself and installed as the partner for their lifetime.  The insipid ex-wife notwithstanding.  It seemed utterly inconceivable that the entirely of London had not been in chaos battling for his lover’s hand.

      “The entrances to the house register when they are opened or closed when I am not at home and video evidence is provided of the identity of the individuals involved.  There was some concern that there had been a large emigration and no immigration to rebalance the population.”

      “Some concern?  How often do you check up on me?”

Far more often than he would let his Gregory know.  The overpowering urge to keep watch over his vulnerable mate would ebb in time, but that time was certainly not the present.

      “Now and again.  Do not fear that you are under continuous surveillance, my dear.  I would not invade your privacy to that degree and I know it is unnecessary.  But a watchful eye is prudent, I feel, until you are better able to manage your care without assistance.”

      “Don’t worry, I’m not upset.  If you were in this position, I’d be phoning ten times a day and asking people to stop in to check on you because I don’t have super-secret military-grade surveillance gear at my fingertips.  But it’s just for an hour or so, love.  John and Sherlock are going to be back soon and…”

      “John and Sherlock are going to enjoy a relaxing _several_ hours at home to restore their flat to some semblance of what they view as normalcy.  I did take a moment to verify the particulars of your situation before I took it upon myself to alleviate your solitary condition.”

      “I get it now.  You’re looking for a little midday loving with your broken down old man.  Well, if I must, I must.  Help me get out of these pyjama bottoms…”

      “Gregory, do behave yourself.  And you are not in the least, as you say, broken down.  I carried a very pleasing memory with me all day of our activities last night before we rested.”

His partner’s hands were a thing of magic and wonder when they turned their attention to lustful endeavors.

      “Glad I’m not the only one.  Maybe tonight we can have a little repeat performance.”

      “You are most insatiable, Gregory.”

      “It’s one of my strengths.  Good thing, too.  I need all I can get right now.”

Said with his beloved’s disarming smile, yet Mycroft felt the alarms going off in his head.  Another thing his lover did not need to know was that John was very amenable to sharing information that pertained directly to this lovely man’s health, both physical or otherwise.

      “Pshaw.  Were your strengths to be enumerated, it would require the majority of the day and evening before the list was completed.  Now quiet yourself and we may, perhaps, discuss the course of these next few hours.  Would you enjoy a film?  A read through the day’s newspapers?  Perhaps a bit of cards or chess?”

      “One of each would be great!  But, at some point, I’ve got to do a pub crawl with Arthur.”

Mycroft sent his mind through his mental files for any possible euphemistic or colloquial use of the term ‘pub crawl’ and came up with nothing but the literal interpretation.

      “Pardon?”

      “On his mobile!  You know… Mycroft’s magic mobile that lets him control reality at his discretion?  Well, I’m going to have a nice lack-of-pint with the lad… and Sam.”

Lestrade carefully watched Mycroft’s face and felt no surprise when the elegant man’s face went still at the news.

      “He’s here, love.  But, you must have already known that.  Took the boys out for a day in the city.  Oh, and they brought a friend along – Douglas.  You met him in Fitton, didn’t you?”

Well, this day was growing incalculably dim, wasn’t it?

      “Yes… quite the entrepreneurial fellow.  I do believe his ego might rival that of Sherrinford’s own.”

      “Maybe that’s the connection, then.  I got the feeling that Sam and Douglas are becoming friends, actually.”

And the darkness grows.

      “Like attracts like, I suppose.”

      “We’re not that much alike, but I am greatly attracted to you Mycroft Holmes.  Like a tricycle to one of those big magnets at a scrapheap.  You just draw me in…”

But it was Mycroft who was being drawn in by Lestrade’s beckoning finger and the politician found himself rising from his chair to, in turn, fall into a kiss with his partner that put all thoughts of his brother or any surprise houseguests out of his head.  And, his thoughts remained remarkably clear as the kiss deepened as, somehow, he was levitated onto the bed and the afternoon assignation he had sidestepped earlier appeared directly on his horizon.  This time, he hadn’t the heart to deny his lover’s advances.  After all, intimacy was a great boon for good health, was it not?

__________

A little tea was a just reward for his Gregory’s incomparable talents and Mycroft gladly prepared a cup for each of them, but halted bringing them back into the bedroom, hearing voices in the room he was preparing to enter.  Slowly cracking the door, Mycroft listened closely and smiled hearing Arthur’s excitement filling the room.  Stepping in to pay his own greeting, the middle Holmes brother halted again hearing another voice, one he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.  A little shake of his head towards Lestrade kept his presence out of the ensuing conversation.

      “It’s been brilliant!  We got to watch two puppet shows.  Two!  There was one and then they had another and Doctor Sam bought us tickets to see that one, too.  This one was different because they used the puppets on strings, so it was absolutely brilliant and Skip even stayed awake for it!”

      “That sounds fantastic, lad.  I’m glad you’re having a good time.  Got your shopping done?”

      “Some.  It seems everywhere we go we find new places to go shopping and I’ve got a big bag of things already.  We’re going to get my craft supplies, next, at the shop Mycroft took me to and I’ve got a long list for that so I’ll probably have another big bag to carry when I’m done.  Good thing the car has lots of room!”

      “You’re just like Skinny, Arthur. Everywhere we went, I’d find the local art supply stores and he’d walk right in and start filling a basket or just handing me what caught his fancy to carry for him like a pack mule.  He’d take forever rooting through every corner of the place, ordering the poor guy at the counter to go into the back and bring out anything he hadn’t seen yet… and, of course, he never had a penny in his pocket to pay for any of it, so ol’ Sam had to dig into his own wallet to settle the bill.  That was _not_ easy once the bitch… I mean, once Mummy cut my allowance to the bone, but what he hell.  You should have seen his little face when we’d walk out with a few shopping bags of pencils and paints and papers and all sorts of things that he would spend the next week putting to good use.”

Lestrade grinned at Mycroft who had taken a seat out of range of the camera that was aimed towards the bed and wondered why his lover wasn’t grinning back at him.  He couldn’t know that Mycroft’s mind was currently residing decades back in a host of little shops in various cities, studying the items on offer, speaking to the employees to learn more about the products and their use… and always in Sherry’s company.  Mummy and Father did not indulge his interests, but his brother never refused a demand to explore an art shop or visit any galleries or museums on offer.  Sherrinford would spend hours, days, indulging his pursuits and never complained.  Never said no and always provided the funds for whatever entertainment he had desired.  And yes… it must have been difficult because Mummy had severely restricted his brother’s access to money in the few years before his departure.  But, the child Mycroft, had not fully registered that fact.  He did, however, happily drain his brother’s pockets, and deride him mercilessly when Sherry forced a stop to purchase some form of alcohol or disgusting food product that should not be fed to a hog.  He had suffered countless respites in some tacky drinking establishment while his brother refilled his blood vessels with alcohol.  Horrid, simply horrid.  And no, it was not helped by the fact that Sherry encouraged him to use the time to sketch and showed genuine interest in both the process and the outcome.

      “That sounds brilliant!  I would love to have seen Mycroft as a wee tot shopping for his art things.  Actually, I wish I had been a wee tot when Mycroft was a wee tot so we could have gone shopping together and done crafts together and napped together before having a snack and working on crafts a little more.”

Lestrade held back the laughter, especially when he saw Mycroft lose his frown and replace it with a soft, fond smile.

      “Well, I bet Skinny would do all of that with you right now if you asked.  Except the nap part, because he was never a napper and I bet it’s the same now.  Kid had no use for sleep.  I don’t care what time of night it was, there was always a good chance I’d find him awake when I got up to pee then he’d go all day as if he’d gotten a full eight hours the night before.  Actually, I’d usually get woken up in the middle of the night because he wanted to notify me of something.  He needed a new book, there was an error in the book he was currently reading, he had an earache…”

      “Oh no!  Poor Mycroft.  I had one of those and it felt like someone had shot an arrow into my ear and started twirling it about.”

      “Poor Mycroft was right… he used to get them fairly often when he was very little.  Sore throats, too.  I’d be up all night with him until the doctor showed up in the morning and then Mycroft would weld his mouth shut rather than take the medicine he’d been given.  That was my first experience mixing cocktails, actually.  The only way he’d take the nasty elixirs was if I mixed them with some sweet sherry or port, add in extra sugar and a little of that juice from a jar of maraschino cherries.  It’d help him sleep, too, which was a double bonus.”

Cherries!  Damnation… he’d tried to recreate Sherrinford’s recipe for Sherlock when he was young and just as defiant about taking a spoonful of anything into his mouth, but he had never replicated the potion properly.  The miserable concoction the doctor prescribed was actually palatable after Sherry reworked it and, yes… sleep was a welcome thing after suffering hours of evil and draining pain.

      “Sherry!  I mean the drink and not you.  Mycroft still likes sherry, too.  He and I share a glass when I visit and it’s the best.  Greg?  Do you and Mycroft drink sherry and sit by a fire and have a chat like Mycroft and I do?”

      “Nah, Mycroft saves that for you.  We have a little scotch, instead.”

      “Yes!  Right!  I forgot.  I actually knew you liked scotch because the first time he mentioned you, not that he mentioned you by name and only called you a friend, but he said you’d had some scotch.  And he was very happy about it, so I suspected something.  And I was right!”

      “You’ve got a sixth sense, Arthur.  And, is that an umbrella drink I just saw being set down next to you?”

      “That you did.  Doctor Sam and I are having a little drink while we wait for Douglas and Skip.  Douglas wanted a new tie and he made Skip go with him.  So, Doctor Sam and I are having a nice drink and maybe a snack and there’s darts if Skip and Douglas take a long time or I have some cards in my pocket and we can have a game of that, instead.”

      “Sounds great!  Sam, you going to have a pint for me, right?”

      “You’re a big boy, so I’m making it two.  And we’re doing a booze run on the way back, so I’ll see if I can hunt you up something with a little less kick or, gasp, a non-alcoholic brew to tide you over until you can have the real thing.  Maybe a virgin wine to split with your bed buddy. What… what time’s he expected back, anyway?”

Neither Lestrade nor Mycroft missed the change in Sam’s tone and both were as unsure as to exactly what it meant.  Another head shake told Lestrade not to announce that his lover was already in the house.

      “I don’t really have a time I ever expect him home; his schedule’s as crazy as mine is when I’m actually doing my job of protecting the public.”

Since Arthur was present, telling an out and out lie felt wrong, so Lestrade was happy he could at least tell a partial truth and save his honor.

      “Makes sense.  We’ll be a couple of hours more, I suspect, so don’t worry if you don’t see us for awhile.”

      “But we won’t be too late, because Doctor Sam needs some new bandages and I didn’t bring any supplies with me.”

      “Arthur, I’m fine.”

      “Then why won’t you take off your jacket, even in this nice pub which isn’t at all cold?”

Arthur dodged the flicked beer foam and Lestrade laughed, suddenly anxious for the day when he could take the lad out for a pint, maybe with John and Sam in tow.  Leave the significant others at home and have a night out with the Non-Holmes Club.  It was odd that he instinctively included Sam in the non-Holmes group, but even if the doctor mended his bridges with Mycroft, there was always going to be something fundamentally different about him that might keep him more on this side of the fence.  But Arthur’s comment worried him and from a glance across the room, he could tell it worried Mycroft, too.

      “Because I’m more concerned about looking good than being a little warm.”

      “I’m giving you a stern look right now.”

      “Really?  I thought you just had to go potty.”

      “Well, that actually is true, but I’m going to wait until after my drink.  Which is very good, by the way.  You were right when you said I’d like it.”

      “Any bartender who can’t make a decent Sex on the Beach should be fired.  This one can keep their job for another day.”

Mycroft shook his head in despair and wondered if there was anyone who could escape the defiling touch of Sherrinford Holmes.

      “Arthur, my lad, I think you’ve got the nicest drink in the pub.”

      “Thanks, Greg!  I think so, too.  I don’t drink very often, but this one is very tasty.  When Skip and I have a little house of our own, I’m going to make sure we can have a tasty drink now and then.”

At Mycroft’s keep-him-going hand motion, which confused Lestrade until the light went off in his head, the Detective Inspector cleared his throat a little and sallied forth with that path of conversation.

      “I meant to ask, how was the house Martin and Sam were staying in?  Nice?”

The little thumbs-up behind Arthur’s head told the Detective Inspector that Sam greatly approved of this line of questioning.

      “IT WAS BRILLIANT!  Everything about it was brilliant!  The kitchen was brilliant, the fireplace was brilliant, the yard was brilliant… it was like a wonderful dream except I was awake!  Skip and Doctor Sam were so lucky to get to stay there.  I hope… I know it’s probably not nice to say, but I hope that Skip decides to stay there a little while longer rather than go back to his flat.  Not that his flat is bad, but the little house is brilliant and brilliant is always better than… not bad.”

      “Well, I’m sure you can convince him to spend some time staying there and it would be a nice favor for Mycroft, anyway.  He’s renting the place and he’s got to make sure nothing happens to it, so a body living there would be a big weight off his mind.”

This thumbs-up from Sam made Lestrade grin wickedly.  If Martin and Arthur didn’t get their perfect little house, it wouldn’t be from lack of trying.

      “Oh!  Yes!  That’s true!  One time I accidentally set fire to my hotel room and that was a _big_ problem.  I had to do all of the laundry and the hoovering in the house for six months because of that.  I don’t want Mycroft to have to do someone’s laundry and hoovering because of a little accident like a teeny fire in the rubbish bin.  That spread to the drapes.  And the carpet.”

      “No, that would be a terrible thing.  Sam, you agree that would be a terrible thing?”

      “It would crush his spirit.  And, how can Skinny rule London, if he has to stop now and then to go add bleach to the wash or toss in some fabric softener.  And he’d need a few lessons in using a vacuum, so there’s that to consider, too.  Really, it’s just not optimum.  Things would go to shit faster than prunes through a hamster.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and glared at Lestrade, who refused to pass it along to the intended recipient.

      “There you go, Arthur.  Better get on that or Mycroft’s in for an un-optimum, prune-filled six months.”

      “AAHH!  I _do_ have to get on that.  Yes!  Right!  Leave it to me… I’ll make sure Skip has a nice holiday and Mycroft’s perfect little house doesn’t catch on fire.”

Arthur took a long celebratory sip of his drink and Sam gave Lestrade a wink before waving the bartender over for another pint.

      “Alright, invalid, you have enough of our company or do you need more hand-holding?  It looks like Martin and Douglas are outside arguing right now, so I suspect we’re going to get invaded in a minute.”

Arthur looked out of the window and waved until he caught Martin’s attention, who gave a small and very reluctant wave back.

      “I’m good.  Hey Arthur, you want to find me a couple of pairs of gloves and hats and scarves?  Mycroft wants to take me out on the town in my wheelchair and he’s worried I’ll get cold.”

Arthur nearly fell off his stool in excitement and it was only Sam’s quick grab of the steward’s collar that prevented Arthur from an up-close and personal meeting with the floor.

      “Brilliant!  Don’t worry about a thing.  I’ll find you the warmest ones possible.  And a nice blanket for your lap, so your legs don’t get cold.  You see that in the films, so it must be important.  Oh, here’s Skip and Douglas!  They’ll help, too, so really, don’t worry one bit.”

Arthur took his kiss from his fiancé and Sam waved goodbye before killing the feed for the call.

      “Well, that was a nice drop in at the pub.  Always interesting people to run into.”

Mycroft moved to a seat near Lestrade and, after a moment’s reflection, set the now-cold tea on the small table near the bed.

      “I admit that I am both displeased that Arthur would be taken to a pub and gleeful that he seems to be enjoying his outing.”

      “Lean towards the latter, love.  Sam wouldn’t take Arthur somewhere he felt was dangerous and, from what I could see, it was actually a nice place.  They made Arthur a Sex on the Beach for christ’s sake!”

      “What exactly is that?”

      “I have no idea, but it looked colorful and Arthur liked it, so good call Sam.”

      “Do not be too certain that Sherrinford would choose a reputable establishment for their relaxation, my dear.  It was to my unending shame and worry that he dragged me into more than a few locations that were likely condemned by the health services within days of our visit or were raided by the police on a regular basis.  That they had no objection to serving a boy of thirteen rather tells the tale.”

      “He was a kid!  Probably thought it was an adventure and wanted you to join in.  He’s an old man now and isn’t going to put Arthur in any danger.  And, like you said, Arthur was having a great time and that’s all that counts.  Well, that and my new winter wear.  That should buy us an extra hour of peace in case you want another go around with your own old man.”

      “You leer very professionally, my dear.”

      “Only for you.  But I can tell you’re going to say no this time, so I have to get whatever enjoyment I can out of things.  I know!  I’ll daydream about little Mycroft marching around with his pet brother on a leash having their own shopping trips.  I would give everything I owned for a video of just one of your and Sam’s outings.  They sounded like fun… was that true?”

Mycroft sighed and let his posture relax.

      “Fun is not perhaps the term I would use.  I required supplies and Sherrinford was the only avenue I had for procuring them.  The shopping process… the discovery of new things, the comparisons, the envisioning of how I could use them, the tactile sensation of brushes between my fingers and pencils in my hand… that I would gladly describe as enjoyable.”

And Sherrinford was content to wait patiently as he had those experiences.  Never rushed him, never reminded him of the time… in fact, often extended their day with other activities, such as a stop to browse for books or recordings of his favorite pieces of music.  Of course, that Sherry used these outings as opportunities to seduce unsuspecting females, to whom he returned for sexual debauchery after they had returned home and he could escape under the cover of darkness spoke strongly to his brother’s character, or lack thereof.

      “That’s good!  I’m glad you got to have some fun as a kid.  The way Sherlock talks sometimes, all you did was stand around with a stick up your bum, wagging your finger at him.”

      “Sherlock’s memories of his childhood are largely of his own contrivance.  He chooses which events to remember and how they are to _be_ remembered.  I long ago learned to accept that he has crafted his own saga of his youth and has decided it shall be the truth, without worrying about the _actual_ truth contradicting any chapter of his epic tale.  Though, I must admit, once Sherrinford left home, I had far less time to devote to my own enjoyment.  There was Sherlock to mind, my new responsibilities to learn… _fun_ was not a very high priority.”

And, without Sherrinford’s efforts, it was not something that sprang immediately to his mind, not that he would ever admit to looking back in regret at the end of a day and seeing nothing looking back at him but duty and obligation.

      “Now that’s what I don’t like to hear.  But, you’re never too old for a good time and it’s my job now to see that you get your fair share.”

      “It is a task for which you are highly suited.  I have always found you to be someone with whom time shared is precious, treasured and, dare I say, _fun_.”

It still boggled Lestrade that Mycroft could have a good time with someone like him, but, if he took as truth that the Edgar business was a complete lie, then he had to admit that he saw the great Mycroft Holmes more relaxed and… happy… with him than with anyone else.  Not that he’d seen Mycroft with many people, but he felt, deep inside, that the more of Mycroft’s colleagues he met, the more he’d know this observation to be true.  Well, that was his daydream at least.  He could find out the reality was exactly the opposite of what he hoped and, with his luck, Mycroft would see the same thing… but that was a worry for another day.  Today had enough on its plate already.

      “Then what can I do for you to make today a fun one?  I’d dance provocatively, but I’m not sure how my plumbing would take to twirling around a couple of nipple tassels.”

      “I believe we can dispense with that particular amusement for the time being.  In truth, the turn of our discussion has inspired me to draw.  Would you mind if I spent some time with my sketchbook?”

      “Mind?  I adore it when you draw, you know that.  But… you mentioned brushes and things… do you paint, too?”

      “It has been a very long time, but I did paint when I was younger.”

      “You should give it a try again.  I’d love to see what you could do with brushes and a canvas.  I imagine it would be amazing.”

Mycroft withheld the reason he eventually gave up painting because it was clear that his Gregory was already troubled about the course of his childhood.  No need to bring up that his parents simply ignored his requests for trips to shop for paints or brushes.  That the only instances where he could purchase anything for his art were the times they were already out to shop for other things and he could absent himself from his parents’ company for a bit to refill his stocks.  Without Sherrinford, his art, effectively, had no patron and withered accordingly.  What was left to him was drawing and that became less and less frequent as other matters consumed his time.

      “Perhaps I shall.  I have not felt the urge in years, but these weeks have rekindled many interests and desires.  To set up an easel and spend an afternoon lost in creation… the idea again holds appeal.”

      “As Arthur would say – Brilliant!  I’m glad you’re considering it.  And, I get the joy of watching you, which is my own reward.  So, what are you going to draw today?”

      “Hmmm… I have no firm idea.  Suggestions?”

      “How about a ship.  One of those big sailing ships.  Oh!  No, forget that.  Do a submarine.  Something really steampunky like Captain Nemo would have.”

      “The _Nautilus_ … that is an intriguing idea.”

      “And I can read _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ while you work.”

      “We do adore Jules Verne.”

      “That we do.”

      “I shall get my sketchbook.”

      “And more tea?”

      “That shall be my first order of business.”

__________

Arthur bounced along in the car on the way home and marveled that he was able to have such a brilliant time!  How many people could have days like this?  Not many, if all the unsmiling faces he saw while they were out was any indication.  Not him, though… all smiles all the time because they had done so many wonderful things!  Even Douglas seemed happy and Douglas usually got a bit arrgghh when he had to spend too much time with him or Skip doing things like shopping or watching puppet shows, not that they had watched many puppet shows together, or _any_ puppet shows together, but he’d had a nice time, too.  Maybe because Douglas could talk to Doctor Sam and even go off for a little of their own shopping when he and Skip stopped by the bear shop to make Douglas his own bear, which now sat proudly on the front seat next to Charles and tiny Charles Bear.  Douglas and Doctor Sam must have had a super time during their shopping, too, because they were already planning on an evening out with two ladies they met during their little walk.  To be helpful, he’d already drawn up a list to give them of things to do in London so they had plenty of ideas for their dates.  Not to be boastful, but if anyone knew fun things to do in London on dates, it was him.

The only bad thing about today was knowing Doctor Sam was in pain and not wanting to show it.  The first thing he’d do when they got back to Mycroft’s house was get Doctor Watson to check Doctor Sam’s injury, because he had a bit of a suspicion that there was an icky stain on Doctor Sam’s shirt and icky meant bad things when you were hurt.  Mr. Sherlock and Mycroft sometimes got daft ideas and did daft things and, apparently, Doctor Sam did, too.  It made sense, since they were brothers, but it was still very daft and he’d have to keep a better eye on all of them to make sure they didn’t keep falling back into their daft ways.  When they got daffy, very upsetting things could happen and there had been far too many upsetting things in their lives already.

      “I can’t believe you two convinced two women… how did you just walk around for an hour and get dates?”

      “Well, Sir… when one has it, one simply has it.”

      “What are you even talking about?”

      “Martin, you are too young and far too engaged to know.  Let’s just say the masters were at work and leave it at that.”

      “And it certainly did not take, as you intimate, an hour.  Sherry and I filled our social calendar within fifteen minutes of leaving you and Arthur to your ursine artisanry.”

      “The pair of you are incorrigible.”

      “The pungent whiffs of envy floating off of you are certainly not appropriate for an engaged man, Martin.  That you failed to inherit your cousin’s facility with the fairer or not-so-fairer sex is no reason to endanger you pre-marital bond with young Arthur.”

      “I’m not endangering anything!  It’s just… it’s not proper.”

      “We’re not proper, Sherry, old thing.  Whatever shall we do?”

      “Enjoy the hell out of it.”

      “There you have it, Sir.  We shall enjoy the hell out of it, despite your prudish chastisement.”

      “Skip, stop chastising.  It’s nice that Douglas and Doctor Sam made new friends.”

      “Arthur, secretaries they met at a pub do not count as friends.”

      “Why not?”

Sam and Douglas both grinned at Martin and motioned for him to please explain.

      “Friendship requires knowing people’s surname, at the very least.”

      “Oh, he has us there, Douglas.  Guess we have to settle for a few hours of pleasant company with those nice, nubile young ladies who we will treat in a most gentlemanly fashion.  Emphasis on the manly, with professionally-delivered gentle.  Friendship is off the table, though.”

Martin seethed in his seat and Arthur patted him on the leg, though he had no idea what his Skip was upset about.  That sounded like a wonderful date to him!”

      “Neither of you is to speak to me for the rest of the day.”

      “That, Sir, is an order I shall gladly follow.  Now, Arthur… did you have an agenda for our evening or is it every man for himself?”

      “Oh… no, I don’t really have a plan.  I guess it depends on…”

Arthur cut his eyes towards Sam, who repositioned a little to unstick his shirt from his skin and let out a heavy sigh.

      “Me.  Yeah, I got it, kid.  If Skinny’s home, then he and I are going to be tied up for the duration, but that’s no reason the rest of you can’t do something.  In fact, Arthur, I expect you to keep Greg’s spirits up because he’s going to be worried about me wiping the floor with his lovely-dovey kissy boy.”

      “I don’t think Greg’s worried about that, because I don’t exactly know what you mean, but I do think he’s worried that you and Mycroft won’t work out your problems and won’t be brothers again.”

      “He’s a smart man.”

      “But you have to!”

      “No, what we have to do is find out what’s possible.  It may not be very much, kid, and you know that’s the case.  No amount of finger crossing or toe crossing, don’t think I don’t see you doing that, is going to make a difference.  We talked about this, remember.”

Arthur pouted intensely, but still kept his toes crossed, much to Sam’s amusement.

      “Yes.”

      “Good.  Now, while Mycie and I are rattling our sabers, you guys can do something less lethal.  Good night for a movie and your patented snack attack.  That’ll keep the sickly one distracted and Babylock, too.”

      “Mr. Sherlock should be there.”

      “No, Arthur, he shouldn’t.  This is between Mycroft and me and that’s that.  And it looks like I should be getting mentally prepared because I do believe that is Casa Holmes looming like the _Psycho_ house.”

Arthur whirled around in his seat and looked past Charles’s head to see Mycroft’s house ahead of them.  His stomach suddenly started to hurt, but there was nothing he could do about it.  This was the reason they were in London and if Doctor Sam and Mycroft didn’t have their talk, then nothing would ever change and things _had_ to change or they couldn’t be a whole family and if he thought about that for too long, he might start to cry and today had been too wonderful to ruin with crying!  If he had to cry, it would be later, when Skip could sing a lullaby and make him feel better, though Doctor Sam had no one to sing him a lullaby and that thought made it even harder not to cry, so he pushed it down very hard and sat on it to keep it from wriggling free.  Detective and doctor’s assistants sometimes had to handle difficult things and this was good practice, though it didn’t make him feel better about the whole business…

      “Doctor Sam… can I give you a hug before you have your talk?”

      “You can give me two for extra luck.”

      “Brilliant!”

      “Just don’t make Martin jealous.”

      “Skip, will you be jealous if I give Doctor Sam two hugs?”

      “No, but I’ll be annoyed if he gives you fleas.”

      “After I finish with Mycroft, I’m coming for you, Marty.  And my axe will already be bloody.”

      “Oh,  Martin… however will you wear your hat without your head?”

      “Not talking to either of you.”

      “Skip, I think you just did.”

      “Thank you, Arthur.”

__________

      “This is intolerable!”

Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock and Sherlock’s fourth ‘intolerable!’ since he and John had returned.  Apparently, the detective was a tad cranky that John had been appalled at the state of the flat and, instead of a pleasurable second round of sex, insisted they clean their living space before Mrs. Hudson saw it and had a stroke.

      “There’s nothing intolerable about Gene Kelly!  Sing, dance, act… that’s talent.”

      “For the uncultured masses, perhaps, for which I am not, thankfully, counted as a member.  Your taste in entertainment is atrocious.”

      “Well, I didn’t say you had to sit here with me, now did I?  You could have stayed home in your nice, clean flat or could be helping John do whatever John is doing…”

      “He is updating your records and, as I understood it, making arrangements for the next phases of your treatment.  Nothing that interests me in the slightest.”

      “Good to know.”

      “Sherlock, it would not end your life to show some concern about Gregory’s well-being.”

      “I have no evidence for or against that statement and would rather not put it to the test.”

      “One day…”

Not that Mycroft could expound on his thought because the ‘We’re Home!’ that blared like a klaxon through the house put other matters on his radar.  He had no idea why he stood to await the arrival of his brother, but his legs did not feel it necessary to inform his brain of the reason and he had not the energy to argue with them.

      “Mycroft!  Greg!  Mr. Sherlock!”

Arthur raced into the room, carrying so many bags that he nearly overbalanced twice giving out hello hugs.

      “I assume you had a profitable day, my boy?”

      “It was absolutely brilliant, Mycroft!  We did things and saw things and bought things and ate things and drank things and… things!”

And, while Arthur put down his day’s treasure, Martin stalked into the room, followed by a smirking Douglas and… well, Mycroft knew his brother was in the party, but knowing and seeing were two very different things.

      “Sherrinford.”

      “Mycroft.”

      “I trust you have a moment to spare for a conversation?”

      “Yeah… just give me a second to…”

      “I can imagine what you would like to do before we speak, however, I would prefer you have a clear head for our discussion.”

Sherrinford snarled at the jab and Arthur quickly jumped into the ring to referee.

      “No!  Doctor Sam doesn’t want a little drink, he needs…”

      “It’s ok, kid.  Hats off to baby bro for taking the bull by the horns.  You want to do this now, Mycroft, we do this now.  Come on.”

Sam stormed out of the room and Arthur cringed that he did it without any sign of how badly he was hurting, which had to have made him hurt even more.  Before he could say anything, though, Mycroft followed his brother and all the steward could do was turn and glare at Sherlock, who wondered what he had done to deserve Arthur’s ire.

      “What?”

      “You’re supposed to be helping, Mr. Sherlock and I did _not_ see any helping.”

      “Yes, during their four second encounter I was not able to broker a treaty between Sherrinford and Mycroft.  Truly remiss of me.”

      “Don’t snap at Arthur, Sherlock.”

      “I am not snapping, cousin.  I am merely stating.”

      “It’s alright, Arthur.  Dupin is obviously out of his depth with this situation.  Have a little pity for the poor boy.  And a lot for that doctor of his.  Sometimes, one simply has to accept one’s limits and the failures they bestow.”

Sherlock’s scandalized face satisfied Douglas greatly and his flight from the room had the First Officer and the Detective Inspector nodding knowingly at each other.

      “I’m not sure what just happened.”

      “Arthur, come sit by me and I’ll explain it to you.  I’ll even restart the film so you can watch from the beginning.”

      “Thanks, Greg!  Is it a comedy?”

      “Absolutely.  And there might be singing.”

      “Brilliant!  I’m going to look up the lyrics on my phone so I can sing along.”

The wait for World War III to end was going to be a long one…


	11. Chapter 11

Sam stormed into Mycroft’s study, with Mycroft only a step behind, however, the middle brother stopped at the threshold to turn and glare at the youngest sibling who had made up the distance and was, now, only a half-step behind the other two.

      “No, Sherlock.”

      “I believe this is certainly my business to pursue.”

      “I would heartily disagree.  You don’t even remember Sherrinford.”

      “And that is sufficient reason for me to participate in this discussion.”

      “You may, as they say, dig up the dirt, at a later time.  This is between Sherrinford and me and your presence is neither necessary nor appreciated.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to continue the argument, but found himself staring at an empty space as Sam grabbed Mycroft by the collar and yanked him into the room, slamming the door behind him.  The detective breathed through his annoyance and checked the knob, already knowing, however, that it would be locked.  He had lived his entire life being the younger brother, but was finding that being the _youngest_ brother was a very different and highly infuriating thing.  But, he could at least hear much of what was being said and that would have to do for now.  Analysis of the information and any necessary response… that could occur after sharing what he learned with John.  Who had best not complain, after making him spend the day cleaning as if he was a charwoman…

__________

      “You want to talk?  Then talk.”

Sam grabbed a bottle of… something… off of the sideboard and took a seat by the fire, which he then pointed to and scowled at his younger brother.

      “Fire.  Build.”

      “I am not your servant.”

      “No, but you’re definitely related to Martin.  Just build the fucking fire, Mycroft, or jack up the heat.  One or the other.  I’m old and cold and tired and this wasn’t my idea in the first place so I want a goddam fire!”

Mycroft tried glaring down his brother’s demands, but failed miserably.  Sherrinford had always been immune to his most ferocious snarls and glares and he had an immense body of data to support that fact.  Bowing to the inevitable, Mycroft got a fire blazing in the fireplace, then took his own seat and stared across at Sherrinford who stared back and took a long swig from the bottle in his hand.

      “Well, princess, you’re the one who _had_ to do this now…”

      “Matters of importance should be handled in a timely fashion, would you not agree?”    

      “Who are you trying to kid?  You don’t give a rat’s ass about us kissing and making up, Mycroft.  You’re just doing this to make Arthur and Greg and the rest of the Scooby gang happy.”

Mycroft’s contemptuous huff fell far short of convincing Sam of its sincerity.

      “You are rather presumptuous in that assertion.  I would say you have no basis on which to make _any_ statement concerning my intentions or expectations.”

      “I have a basis the size of Mount Rushmore.  I know you, little brother.  Better, maybe, than you know yourself and there is zero chance you want to have anything more to do with me than is absolutely necessary.  And by necessary, I mean you’re trapped under a collapsed building and need someone to drag you out and give you a person-to-person direct transfusion sort of necessary.  Even then you’d try to call someone else to do the job if you thought you stood a tenth of a chance of survival without my help.  No… wait, I take that back.  When you needed something you never thought twice about demanding I do it, get it, make it, remove it, change it, find it… yeah, I was off my head there a second.  Told you I was tired.”

Mycroft struggled to keep the shock off of his face.  Why he hadn’t expected Sherrinford to fire such a forceful shot as his opening salvo, he didn’t know, but… no, he did know.  Sherrinford _never_ attacked.  Never insulted or demeaned.  When they were children, Sherrinford swallowed his anger, his frustrations... never shared them with his younger sibling.  The adult Sherrinford, the disreputable doctor he had come to know... if he was to be honest, he would be forced to say that the man continued that pattern.  His insults were so completely ludicrous it was impossible to take them seriously.  They infuriated because they were so utterly foolish, but there was no cruelty there.  No intent to hurt.  The one true harsh outburst had been when his brother was in pain and his temper was strained.  As strained as it was now...

      “I concede that I, as is normal for a younger brother, looked to you for assistance when it was necessary, though you may have preferred it be otherwise.”

When his brother laughed, it wasn’t the open and honest sound he normally issued.  It was cold, dark and a terrible weight dragged every bit of it from Sherrinford’s lips down to the floor.

      “Do you know how I knew you absolutely adored Sherlock when they brought him home?  It was how you looked at him.  One look and you were so deeply in love it made you glow.  You were just a little thing, but you already had the first love of your life.  I knew that feeling so well... that’s what I felt when they brought _you_ home.  I took one look at you and knew there was nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you.  I was six years old and I knew you were always going to be right at center of my life.  I would do anything, give anything... make any sacrifice... if you needed me to.”

      “That juxtaposes quite sharply with your bitterness.  Kindly keep your hypocrisy to a minimum.”

      “I’m not a fucking saint!  It’s one thing to love someone and it’s returned, it’s quite another when they repay you with abuse that never stops.  Never, ever stops no matter how hard you try or how badly you… you just want a smile.   One honest smile that says the person is happy you’re in their life.  You don’t love them less, you can’t… it’s so deep in every cell of your body that it’s there forever, but… you can hurt.  It hurts… _burns_ … when you know that you’re nothing to them.  Less than nothing, really.  They despise you.  They spit on the ground you walk on… spit in your face if they could reach that high.  I’d hoped things might have changed.  I was wrong.  C’est la vie.”

As Sam took another long drink, Mycroft tried to get his heart restarted.  And his brain.  His lungs could use a little pep talk, as well.  This… this was not… Sherrinford could not… no.  Whatever his brother was trying to say – no.

      “Sherrinford… you… I have no idea how you developed these ridiculous ideas, however…”

      “I hate you, Sherrinford.  You are a disgrace, Sherrinford.  You defile our family, Sherrinford.  You are loathsome, Sherrinford.  You are worthless, Sherrinford.  Any of that sound familiar?  Oh, and let’s add in the ‘You should simply leave, Sherrinford.’  Mummy is unhappy and it’s your fault, Sherrinford.  Why do you not find a brothel or somesuch to make your home, Sherrinford.  We would be made much happier by your absence, Sherrinford.  Will you kindly stop insulting our ears with your so-called musical performance, Sherrinford… I quit playing piano because every time I tried, I’d hear your voice in my head telling my how shitty I was.  That sucked when I had to fall back on playing in a few clubs to earn cash.  I’d come home richer but feeling like I’d been kicked in the head over and over… Don’t try and play dumb with me, Mycroft.  You made your feelings or lack thereof, quite clear, thank you very much.”

This time it was Mycroft pilfering his liquor supplies, pouring himself a large measure of scotch that disappeared without him realizing what actually had been its fate.  The second one he brought back to his chair and cursed that the time he’d bought himself to think had produced absolutely nothing.  Yes… he had said those things.  But what child did not?  Children could be cruel and contemptuous, at will, and… perhaps _his_ will had been more focused and frequently applied than most but… he did not necessarily mean his words.  At the very least, he had not meant them to the extent his brother seemed to have believed.  That is to say… not always.

      “I… you are being overly harsh.  I was a child!”

      “A child who knew his own mind practically from birth.  A genius with a clear and cutting intellect who had no time or inclination for lies, unless they benefitted him in some way.  Are you trying to tell me that I should have taken seriously everything else you said in your day, but just chucked these off with the ‘oh, he’s just a kid’ excuse?  Give me a break.  Horton that fucking elephant, he had it right.  You meant what you said and you said what you meant.  And you know the worst part… it just made me try harder.  God, I was stupid…”

No… that was not truth of it.  He did not hate his brother, he never had.  Sherrinford was an embarrassment, irritating, unceasingly ridiculous and bacchanalian, but… he did _not_ hate him.  Sherrinford was the constant of his childhood.  The unpredictable, yet paradoxically reliable, force of his youth.  He was continuously aggravated by his brother’s behavior, but never to such an extreme degree… did Sherrinford truly believe that of him?  How could the fool have interpreted things so grossly out of proportion?

      “You are… you are entirely mistaken.  I never hated you, Sherry.  The things I told you… a child’s petulance and frustrations spoken aloud.  I will not say I never meant to lash out… I often did.  You… you angered me so fiercely at times!  You were… you did things that I could scarcely imagine.  It was as if you shared no blood with me at all.  As if you were someone dropped upon our doorstep and taken in because Mummy and Father were feeling, that day, a bit charitable.  I understood _nothing_ you did.  Did not see, in any manner, how you could conduct yourself in such a fashion and maintain any modicum of dignity.  Not that I thought dignity was ever a concern of yours… you proved time and time again that you were quite content to wallow in the most undignified activities and indulgences and drag me into the mud with you.  Did you think I enjoyed those times?  Standing there in shame as you were dressed down by a constable for your tomfoolery?  Sit in a horrifying hovel praying to avoid rabies or the pox while you drank yourself capable of continuing our day?  Listening to the shouts of yet another father whose daughter you took as a dalliance?  Have you any idea of how your behaviors dogged my heels, plagued me mercilessly?  How quickly your foolishness made its way through school and I had to weather the sniggers and sarcastic inquiries of my classmates who had heard the stories of your depravity?  You infuriated me, Sherrinford. Filled each day with irritations that chafed more severely than sandpaper dragged across flayed skin.  Yes, I may have expressed my anger with frequency, yes, it may have been hyperbolic and, at times, histrionic… but I did not realize you would take my words to heart.  They were not meant to hurt… if that is in any fashion comprehensible.  To berate and punish, to have you feel the frustration I felt… but not to truly hurt you.  I do not hate you, Sherrinford.  I _never_ hated you and if I had genuinely desired you vanish from my life it… I would not have reacted as poorly as I did when it actually came to pass.”

Sam stared at his brother who seemed both earnest and honestly unsettled, as if it was very important that this be clearly understood.  That was… interesting…

      “I didn’t want you to embarrass you, Mycroft.  I never thought about it, I suppose.  No argument from me that I was a loose cannon in those days… if it sounded fun or looked fun, I was all for it.  And I thought… I _hoped_ that maybe you’d enjoy yourself a little, too.  Get some inspiration to cut loose on your own now and then…”

Mycroft went to hold his head in his hands, but, fortunately, remembered his drink before he gave his hair an unexpected rinse.

      “Why in god’s name would you think I would want to do that?”

      “Because you were a kid!  I was getting my ass nailed to a chair and trained to do all the shit you do now and it was the absolute worst.  But, when I could get away, I did what I could to have some fun.  Clear out the cobwebs and recharge my batteries.  You… I could see it, Mycie.  You didn’t do that.  You were headed towards becoming some friggin’ grey-skinned man in a grey-colored suit.  You needed the chance to be a _kid_.  Your art… I did whatever I could for you to keep you working on your art.  I didn’t care what it cost in time or money or you scowling at me because I asked a dumb question about a shape of a brush or why the ten pencils that looked alike were actually different.  You were _so_ talented, Mycroft and it was… you should have seen yourself when you worked in a piece.  Even when you were tiny and just using some crayons to draw a picture of a tree, you looked so content.  Recharging… clearing out the cobwebs.  But, you needed something more, too.  A little craziness.  Some spark, some zing.  See what of the world Mummy and Father didn’t want you to see.  Do something to have a few secrets over.  Give yourself a chance to find parts of yourself that might never see the light of day if you didn’t open the windows and pull back the curtains.”

      “Oh, and that was _your_ decision to make?”

      “Yes!  You had one person looking out for you, little brother.  No one else was going to try to make sure you didn’t mummify.  They couldn’t do it to me, but you weren’t the craptastic asshole I was and I was so scared… you were a good son, Mycroft and I didn’t want so see you ‘good son’ yourself into becoming some boring jerk that had no life, no love, no… anything.  I wanted you to have some confidence to take risks, do something you wanted to do, even if it wasn’t what you were supposed to be doing… you had plenty of time to get caught up in being an adult, you didn’t need to be someone’s grandfather at seven!”

      “Did you ever think about what _I_ wanted!  Once, Sherrinford… did you ever think about whether I appreciated your foolishness?  Your larceny or vulgarity?  The time wasted in inane activities from which I drew no enjoyment, only suffered profound humiliation, boredom or disgust?  Who do you feel appointed you arbiter of my upbringing?  You who could scarcely manage your own?  Why do you believe your decisions were appropriate for me?  I cannot think of a person more poorly suited to make decisions for himself, let alone another human being than you.  You consistently chose the wrong path for any choice presented to you, so why did you think that, miraculously, your judgment on this issue would be sound?  Your arrogance is astounding.”

      “Arrogance?  Since when it is arrogant to want to do the best you can for someone?  To give them every possible opportunity?”

      “And take them away when you make a cowardly retreat to pursue opportunities for yourself!”

      “I told you why I did that!  You would have been fucking miserable if I hadn’t left!”

      “According to you, I would have had less reason to mummify and, therefore, been a vivacious, happy individual!”

      “Oh, that’s rich.  No one mummifies faster than a middle-management lackey with no possibility of un-lackeying themselves!”

      “I think it highly likely that with the trajectory of your existence, you would have, and probably will yet, drink yourself to death and I would have ascended the ladder nonetheless!”

      “Crawling over my dead body for your shot at the crown, why am I not surprised?”

      “Anything resting on your brow will surely not lie upon mine.  I detest lice.”

      “You did _not_ just say I had lice.”

       “It is unseemly to avoid the truth, no matter how unpleasant.”

      “You are fucking lucky you’re not in swinging distance.”

      “If you were not so disgracefully lazy, it would not really be an issue, now would it?”

      “Why am I even here?  Seriously this is goddam stupid.”

      “Finally, something we agree upon.”

__________

      “Oh no!”

Sherlock whirled so fast, he nearly lost his balance and it was a near thing Arthur catching him before the youngest Holmes ended up on the floor.

      “Arthur!”

      “Are you even paying attention, Mr. Sherlock? Why are you out here?   Why aren’t you in _there_?  How are you supposed to help if you’re hiding behind a door?”

      “I am NOT hiding!  I was… disallowed entry.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “They wouldn’t let me in.”

      “And you let it happen?  I’m starting to wonder if you want Doctor Sam and Mycroft to say they’re sorry to each other at all.”

      “What would you have me do?  The door is locked.”

Sherlock turned the handle back and forth a few times to Arthur’s displeasure and stopped only when the steward let out a frustrated puff of breath.

      “Right.  Well, they don’t leave me any choice, do they?”

Sherlock watched Arthur look around him as if checking that nobody was watching before lashing out a savage kick to the door and giving a shout of pain that had the detective’s ears ringing.

      “OWWWWWWWW!  Mycroft!  Doctor Sam!  OWWWWWWWW!”

If it was a full millisecond before the door was being throw open, Sherlock would have been surprised, but he got more than enough surprise when Arthur gave him a hard shove that hurled him into the room, nearly bowling over Mycroft like a target in a children’s game.  With a ‘and it really hurts so not a lie!,’ Arthur slammed the door shut and held onto the knob in case Sherlock tried to make an escape.  After a few moments, then a few more and a final few more just in case, the steward took his hands off the doorknob and, alert for any last-minute trickery, backed away slowly and painfully from the door, until he felt it safe to hobble away towards Lestrade’s bedroom and the second doctor in the house…

__________

      “Oh my god, that was the best fake-out I have ever seen.  I owe that boy a good $4.21 for that inspired move.”

Sherlock stood awkwardly in the study, alternating glances between Mycroft’s glare and Sam’s smirk and decided that Arthur would be using that $4.21 to buy him a bottle of headache tablets when this was over.

      “Arthur felt some form of mediator was required.”

      “Arthur was mistaken.  Sherrinford and I are managing quite nicely…”

      “Sherlock was listening at the door, Skinny.  And if you didn’t figure on that, then you suck worse than I thought you did.”

      “Of course I knew he would eavesdrop.  I was trying, however, not to comment on his abominably poor manners.”

      “My abominably poor manners?  I believe it was _you_ , Mycroft, who slammed a door in my face!”

      “It was Sherrinford who perpetrated that insult, if you remember, though I agreed with the decision to prevent your ill-mannered interference in business that did not concern you.”

      “You mean as you do so often and efficiently that you have raised the art of busybodying to a profession?”

      “Pipe down, the two of you!  My god, it’s like playschool in here.  Sherlock… glass with ice.  This stuff is tasting raw, warm.  Mycie, more fire.”

      “The fire is quite sufficient, Sherrinford.”

      “If I have to get up to poke that fucking thing myself, I am coming after you with the poker when I’m done and branding your ass so thoroughly, you won’t be sitting down for a month!”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes in defiance, but seeing his brother achieve a perfect ‘I warned you’ expression and start to rise from the chair, leapt forward and tended the blaze, adding a log and praying that he needn’t worry about a chimney fire because the flames were beginning to lick the edges of the flue.  For his part, Sherlock didn’t wait to hear what his brother would do with either lead crystal or ice and got the glass Sherrinford wanted.

      “Good.  Now… isn’t this nice.  Not.  Anyway, you’re too late for the fun, Sherlock.  Mycroft and I were just saying fuck this with a ten-foot cattle prod and calling it a wash.  He can have this half the globe and I’ll take the other and we’ll both live happily ever after.”

      “Your tendency towards drama is most unbecoming.”

      “You’re just jealous, Skinny.  Flair apparently skipped you right over and landed on Bablylock, instead.  Cry yourself to sleep over how bland and dreary you are?”

      “Mature and dignified are infinitely preferable to infantile and cacophonous.”

      “Well, when you can show me an example of mature and dignified, I’ll let you know.  You’re more like a sour little brat in a too-tight diaper throwing his rattle at people and waiting until you pick him up to make the world’s biggest and smelliest number two right under your nose.”

      “What ghastly image.  Is it impossible for you to actually speak in any manner that is remotely appropriate for adult conversation?”

      “Sorry I wasn’t sufficiently mummy-wrap dry and coma-inducingly boring for you.”

      “You have a fixation with mummification, don’t you, Sherry?  You do realize that, despite the promises of Arthur’s film selections, you shall not be revived from your grave and allowed to shamble through the streets, taking victims from what must be the slowest and most visually-impaired members of society?  How something that moves at the speed of a glacier is able to take down any prey is completely beyond comprehension.”

      “You’re thinking of zombies.”

      “I disagree.  I am entirely capable of differentiating between the basic forms of so-called monsters of the horror film variety.”

      “Name one, just one, zombie film.”

      “How is that relevant to _anything_?”

      “It isn’t, but if you’d been able to, I might have actually thought you weren’t a completely sad excuse for an adult male.”

      “On that score, Gregory would certainly disagree.  And offer proof to the contrary.”

      “Ok, you’ve got me.  I’ll stay on this side of the globe until I get every filthy detail out of him.  Maybe, just maybe, I won’t think you’re a total eunuch anymore.”

Sherlock watched his brothers go back and forth, with a completely different tone than before and tried to catch clues as to whether the original hostile mood had broken down naturally into their normal childishness or if they had deliberately subverted their acidity for his benefit.  Regardless, it was not productive to the task at hand.

      “Ahem.”

Mycroft and Sam turned towards Sherlock and stared wordlessly until he began to feel slightly uncomfortable from the attention.  Ignoring Mycroft was an easy thing, but the detective was finding it harder to maintain his aplomb against the scrutiny of _two_ older brothers.

      “Did you actually just say ‘ahem,’ instead of actually clearing your throat?  I’m going to revoke your flair award if you disappoint me like that again, Sherlock.”

      “The interruption served its purpose, so you have little to deride.  Now…”

      “Very good, Sherlock.  This moment can accurately be described as now.  Are there any other obvious details about this situation that you feel compelled to share?”

      “You and Sherrinford are both fearful of exploring the roots of the animosity between you and would rather avoid associating with each other for what could be the rest of your lives than take the risk of experiencing an even greater level of pain than you already endure.  Does that qualify?”

This time, Sherlock casually strode the few steps to the sofa and hurled himself down on it, stretching so that he occupied every inch of possible space and ignoring his brothers’ furiously-shocked expressions.

      “You… you want to run that by me again, you fucking pipsqueak?”

      “Sherlock… that is utter nonsense.”

      “If either of you believe that your denials are in any manner convincing, then I am happy to inform you that they are not.  Whereas you have articulated plausible and most-certainly truthful reasons for your animosity, I suspect there is more that you are reluctant to share.”

Mycroft set down his glass and rubbed his temples to forestall the headache that was loudly and forcefully threatening to form.

      “Sherlock… I am pleased that you are interested in my and Sherrinford’s status; it is a very encouraging thing.  However, you strengths are not in the area of interpersonal skills, so this is a matter that shall not benefit from your intervention or investment.”

      “That you are critiquing my interpersonal skills is the height of hypocrisy.  At last inventory, I have yet to aggrieve the lion’s share of my friends or relations unlike someone else who shall remain nameless. Though his name, for the record, is Mycroft.”

Sam’s laughter sent Mycroft’s blood pressure skyrocketing, but it dropped to a more survivable level when Sherlock next turned his attention to his oldest brother.

      “And you, Sherrinford, appear to choose as your method of human interaction the technique of doing and saying exactly what you wish and believing the other person flawed or humorless if they do not appreciate your lunacy.  That you take your behaviors a step further and _specifically_ attempt to agitate Mycroft cannot be considered a successful method of ensuring efficient communication with him and I must consider that you are specifically sabotaging any attempt to find a solution to your antagonistic interactions.  Apparently, in this family, I am the only one with the perspective and forethought necessary to actually facilitate your negotiation.  Now… where shall we begin?”

Mycroft’s thought was deportation.  Sherrinford was considering something more direct, such as applying his foot to Sherlock’s bum, but neither brother verbalized their thinking because… Sherlock had somewhat of a point.  Not much of one, but there was tiny kernel of truth that had to be acknowledged, though each would rather grit their teeth and crack them into shards than acknowledge it aloud.

      “I vote for another drink.”

      “Absolutely not!  Sherlock, do not provide him with any additional alcohol.”

      “Last time I checked, Mycie, there wasn’t an umbilicus attached between us that let my precious liquor sneak in and rot your liver.”

      “But you admit it _is_ rotting yours.”

      “Gotta die of something.  Might as well be something you like.”

      “That is asinine, even for you.  Do you have any idea how much you drink, Sherrinford?  How much you have always drank?  I… I could not fathom the quantity of spirits that was poured down your gullet.”

      “Why do you even care?  You didn’t when we were kids… well, you cared if I was a little too tanked and did something completely off the wall and I’ll admit you had a right to be pissed at me for that, but you couldn’t have cared less that I was making good work of the liquor cabinet.  Mummy didn’t either, really, or maybe she might have… ok, doesn’t matter.  Don’t start pretending you care now, Mycroft.  It’s embarrassing.”

      “What are you… do you even listen to what dribbles out of your mouth?  I despised your drinking!”

      “You despised _me_ , so of course, you’d hate me drinking, but you really didn’t care, so long as it didn’t get in the way of what you wanted or needed from me.  I could drink myself to sleep every night, which I basically did for a lot of years, and I never saw your ass asking why, did I?  Asking me to stop for any reason other than I didn’t like driving drunk and you wanted something that required we take a car.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock jumped in ahead of him.

      “I shall ask, then.  Why do you drink?”

Sam snarled at Sherlock and poured more of Mycroft’s good whisky over the slightly melted ice in his glass.

      “It makes life easier.  Ok… there you have it.  Want to know what my day was like when I was a kid?  Wake up, have breakfast alone.  Get handed to off to a tutor or five for whatever Mummy or Father thought was right for a boy my age and for a boy in my peculiar position.  Lunch alone or with the kitchen staff, if they had time.  Dinner was hit or miss if I had any company and then it was the few hours until I could actually go to sleep.  Imagine being five and you don’t know any other kids to play with and aren’t encouraged to do anything that could remotely be described as fun.  Watching the kids on TV and wondering why they had so much to do and you didn’t have anything… then here comes Mycroft.  We had a great staff, but he was _my_ brother.  I’d do whatever I could for to help take care of him and… I still had everything else on my plate, plus more that was getting heaped on because, well, I was six now, almost seven.  But I did it.  I did it all and could not for the life of me understand how kids on TV seemed to always be smiling.  I tried to make friends at school, but couldn’t do anything with them, so that fizzled out.  Couldn’t have friends over to my house either because, one, I had no time for them and, two, Mummy didn’t like the idea of my wasting my time with ‘inferior’ children.  That changed when she realized her own kid was the most inferior one of the bunch…”

Sam stopped and drained his glass, refilling it again, before Sherlock snatched the bottle out of his hand.

      “Fucker.  Anyway… yeah, it wasn’t a lot of fun.  So, I started making my _own_ fun.  Mummy called it ‘acting out,’ but it gave me something to smile about for a minute or two.  Then I’d get punished and back to the miserable zone I went.  When Mycie got older, I hoped… maybe it was stupid, and it was definitely pathetic, but I genuinely hoped that he’d be my friend.  Someone to talk to, do things with… it didn’t matter I was older than he was, I just wanted… I just wanted someone to make life less lonely, I guess.  AND we all know how that worked out.  It is not, I repeat, NOT, Mycroft’s fault I started hitting the bottle, but… after a day of being screeched at, by him and Mummy… Father was gone most of the time, so he was never a big problem… never, ever being good enough for either of them, never having much reason to smile, never getting to just… rest… I said fuck it.  I tried to do what I’d seen the adults do, have a few drinks to get mellow and Ta Dah!  it worked.  And a few more to knock me right out at night.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  Over and over, then more often and more often.  It was _so_ much easier to deal with things with a pleasant buzz going… and I cared less about just doing whatever the fuck I felt like doing.  I started to have the fun I never had before.  And that it pissed Mummy off to no end… icing on the cake.  No one gave a flying fuck about me, so why should I return the favor?  And how fortunate that I’d win the lottery and actually have the right genes to become a full-on alcoholic.  That’s pretty much my luck…”

This drink nearly got drained, but Sam remembered Sherlock had taken away his supply and stopped halfway.

      “And don’t feel left out, Sherlock… you know, I used to tell myself that maybe the problem was that Mycroft just couldn’t care for people.  Evil little bastard just might not have the ability.  He wasn’t that affectionate to Mummy or Father, more polite than anything else… so maybe it _wasn’t_ my fault that he couldn’t stand anything about me.  I believed that, you know… it had to be a problem with me because my perfect baby brother couldn’t simply hate my ever loving guts.  Then here you come and all that blew up nicely in my face.  He loved you _so_ much, I’d get teary-eyed watching you two together.  Mycie would spend hours in your room reading to you, talking to you, playing little finger games and you’d lie in your crib cooing happily away.  You were the center of his world, just like he was the center of mine… but it taught me my lesson.  My little brother _could_ love, he just couldn’t love me.  That is the worst feeling in the world, kid, let me tell you.  Knowing someone _can_ care, but won’t spare an ounce of it for _you_ no matter how hard you try for them, no matter what you do for them, no matter how you devote yourself to them and their welfare.  They just don’t care.  Can you imagine it?  No, you probably can’t, and thank god for it…”

But Mycroft could.  A thick lump was forming in his stomach and the rancidity that followed it was threatening to come up and spoil his expensive rug.  He could imagine that scenario exceedingly well… all the years, all the effort, all the time devoted to protecting and keeping well his brother and not a speck of it appreciated.  Never a thank you or a hint of regard, let alone affection.  But _he_ had not been that cold!  That unappreciative or self-absorbed.  He had not done to Sherrinford what Sherlock...  Absolutely not.  No… Sherrinford was mistaken…

      “That is completely untrue!  You paint a stirring picture, Sherrinford, but it is not the truth!  You were profoundly irritating, but you were my brother and I did care for you.  Why… why do think I sought you out?  Do you not remember anything of our childhood properly?  The afternoons spent in the library where you would read to me, the long walks on lovely days…”

      “The days where you demanded I do what you wanted and hammered at me, sometimes physically, until we did what you were stamping your feet for?  That’s what I got from you, Mycroft… not that I didn’t cherish it, I did.  Seeing you happy, or at least not unhappy, was the most important thing in my life, but I knew my role in that happiness.  I was just a means to an end.  If anyone else had been around, you’d have dragged their ass out of bed to…”

      “NO!  That is… is that truly how you perceived our relationship?  For it certainly was not the case from my point of view.  I sought you out because I wanted _you_ , Sherrinford.  I could have conscripted a member of the staff and they would have complied with any of my wishes, but I sought you out because you were the one with whom I _desired_ to spend my time.  I wanted to sit with you, to walk with you, to have you with me as I drew… I did not… there were times when that brought me a great deal of embarrassment and agitation and for that you hold full fault, but… your company was something I did value, Sherrinford.  I… I cannot believe that you have labored under the assumption that I viewed you so poorly.  That I did not care.  I did.  I cared for you… however… I may have failed in communicating this to you in a meaningful manner.  I know well the feeling of loving someone, only to receive vitriol and disdain in return… the hole it bores in your soul and how the years fill that hole with a choking pressure that wakes you in the middle of the night as you struggle to breathe through the sensation that you are failing them utterly, though you have no idea how or why.  All you know is that you shall never be someone they love, though, as you said, it becomes painfully obvious that they _can_ love and do so joyfully with others.  That is _not_ how I saw our childhood.  Not in the slightest… I would not have had you suffer that.” 

Mycroft carefully avoided Sherlock’s gaze and focused entirely on the other brother in the room, but he felt his younger sibling’s eyes boring into him as surely as if they were emitting laser beams that tore through his flesh like paper.

      “I did not enjoy your outrageous actions, Sherrinford… your drunkenness, thefts or flirtations… but the quiet times… those were important to me.  The times when it did not seem as if you were trying to create the maximum chaos possible, but where you appeared content, calm and centered.  When I felt I _could_ communicate with you and you would _hear_ me.  When I felt… comfortable.  I shall not say safe because that is perhaps too strong a term, but… there was a distress, an anxiety, that was ever-present when you were behaving rashly.  But when you were not… I valued our time together, though you may not have realized it and I… I will offer my apologies for that.  If I had known… well, it is difficult to say if anything would have changed, but I would like to think I would have offered, now and then, a gesture of appreciation for your attentions.  I am… I am not, perhaps, a colorful individual.  I despair often and fear greatly that I shall not, in the long term, be able to provide Gregory with… with exactly the type of positive interaction that you describe.  That I shall take from him so much more than I give; that I take his affections for granted and fail to acknowledge that I share them completely.  I worry constantly that I shall lose him to someone better suited to bring him joy, to, as you might say, join him in having fun… perhaps it is a worry that is more justified than I had supposed.”

Sam looked at his brother and tried to find something in his posture or voice or eyes that said Mycroft was lying, but there wasn’t a single indicator.  What he did see was confusion, regret and… fear.  A real and numbing fear that history was going to repeat itself and this time… it would destroy his baby brother completely.

      “No, it’s not.  I’ve watched you, little brother, and you are not the same with Greg as you were with me.  Not at all.  What you have with him I recognize, because I had it with my wife.  Are you going to screw up sometimes?  Hell yes.  Majorly?  No question.  Will you beat yourself to a pulp, then pull out all the stops to repair the damage.  Most certainly.  But, I know two people who can go the distance when I see them and that’s you and Greg.  Don’t worry about that.  Worry about coming up with creative ways to say you’re sorry when you’ve let him down again, hurt his feelings or just been a colossal asshole.  I’ll give you a copy of my list.  I compiled a pretty impressive one and you’re welcome to benefit from my experience.”

When Sam waved his hand at the bottle, Sherlock handed it over without argument, mostly because he was lost in his own analysis of his brother’s words.  Both his brothers’ words…

      “And, Mycroft… ok… wow, this is hard… look, I’m a useless bastard and I know that.  I never, ever forget it.  But, I never thought it upset you to that degree.  Frustrated you, sure.  Pissed you off, absolutely, but not that it really made you feel uncomfortable or anxious.  That is _not_ what I wanted.  I just didn’t want you to have the life I had.  You know it’s bad when you’re eight and already know your life sucks… so I tried, as soon as you could toddle to let you _be_ a toddler.  You didn’t like spending time with other kids, so I quit trying that fast but… toys and games and music and whatever to just let you play... I could have made better decisions, though, especially when I got older.  Let myself accept that you weren’t like me, take a step back and really learn who you were and not assume I knew what you needed.  I was selfish, I guess.  Wanted a little buddy and that’s not who you were.  You enjoyed different things, preferred a different pace of life… didn’t get the kick out of raising hell that I did.  I got so twisted around trying to make you happy that I made you miserable instead… well, if that doesn’t sound _exactly_ like something I would do, then I don’t know what does.  I won’t apologize for trying, though… I’ll _never_ apologize for caring enough about my baby brother to want the best for him, but I _will_ say I’m sorry for doing a crap job of it.  That’s not what I wanted, Mycroft; that’s not what I wanted at all.”

This time it was Mycroft’s turn to study his brother and found not a trace of duplicity or even signs that he was holding something back or hiding a portion of his true feelings.  And, though it stung that his icy resentment of Sherrinford was starting to melt, he could not deny that hearing his brother’s perspective made their early life make more sense.  And, of course, there was the additional sting of sympathy because it was disconcertingly simple to visualize Sherrinford’s compulsions as a caregiver, as well as his heartache because of them.  He had tried endlessly to bring Sherlock happiness, meeting with failure at every turn.  And had undertaken his responsibilities having a greater measure of self-control and restraint than did Sherrinford, as well as a greater degree of focus and sense of propriety, which would serve to give his efforts a greater chance at success.  In addition, he did not suffer an addiction that, even then, was taking a powerful toll.  Sherrinford was correct… he never asked why his brother drank.  Took it only as further proof of his immorality and self-indulgence.  As an adult, he had never looked back at those times and saw his brother’s troubles for what they were, even when he was struggling to help Sherlock with his own addiction.  For all of his intellectual prowess, he had never, until their reintroduction, connected the dots and saw his brother’s problem for what it was, not a character flaw but a true condition for which he desperately needed help.  Help which never came.

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  I appreciate your sentiment.”

      “And I appreciate your honesty.  I am what I am, Mycroft and that won’t change.  I was this person when we were kids, I was this person when I was married and a dad, I was this person when I was drowning in grief, I was this person when I saw you and Babylock for the first time after I arrived in London and thought my heart would burst through my chest.  I don’t try to be an asshole… it just turns out that way no matter what I do.  If you need me to be someone different for us to lay down swords, then this is where it ends, because I can’t.  But, I can try not to make it worse… try to stop myself when I do want to poke at you to get a reaction.  It won’t work most of the time, but now and then I can probably put on the brakes.  And I can zip my lip if you tell me to shut the fuck up and mean it.  If you’re really angry or hurt, let me know and I’ll… take a walk.  Shove a sandwich in my face.  Whatever it takes.  But you have to let me know and that might take a little effort because my skull is friggin’ thick.  I _will_ try though… if that’s… if that’s worth anything to you.”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?  All he had to say was that while he understood Sherrinford’s viewpoint and appreciated Sherrinford’s understanding of his own, there was simply too much distance between them, both temporally and personality-wise for there to ever be a renewed relationship.  And Sherrinford would accept that.  One disquieting thread ran through this conversation and, now that he reflected upon it, the entirety of their lives… Sherrinford’s opinion of himself was pitifully low.  The pompous arrogance he demonstrated was a façade… his brother saw himself as a man of low quality for anything but his abilities at his work.  And it had always been thus.  So much like Sherlock, though Sherlock was finally learning that the man he was offered so much beyond his work.  He was appreciated for who he was, not only for what he could do and it was allowing his brother’s carefully-guarded and heavily-protected heart to peek out and begin to explore his world and the people in it.  Perhaps it had been that way for Sherrinford when he had his family… but they died so very long ago.  All he had to say was that they had laid some demons to rest, but the scars were too thick to go any further.  All he had to do was turn away and that would be the end of the matter.  And the results would be the same as if he turned away from Sherlock when he was most needed and closed the door tightly behind him.

      “It _is_ worth something, Sherry.  I am also, as you say, what I am and that person reacts very poorly at times to your words and actions.  We are somewhat akin to oil and water and that, I suppose, is simply a fact of life, but it does not mean we cannot find common ground.  Achieve some form of détente, so to speak.  I doubt it will be easy to maintain, nor entirely pleasant at times, but… I have suffered a lifetime of meetings with the Americans, so I am quite certain I shall persevere.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and Mycroft narrowed his back and… it was enough.  There had been sufficient sentiment this evening already without adding more to the heap so a silent accord was very appropriate.  Of course, Sherlock had other ideas.

      “Is _this_ the extent of your moment of reconciliation?  Arthur will force me to provide all relevant details and this will _not_ satisfy his need for emotional catharsis and a fairytale ending.  Why must _I_ suffer his disappointment when you are the ones who are chronically dysfunctional human beings?”

      “Do you want me to kiss him, Sourlock?  Will that make you happy?”

      “No.  But Arthur will be delighted.”

      “Ok then… come here, Mycroft.  And pucker up.”

      “How utterly revolting.  And there is no reason you cannot traverse the floor and, as you dull-wittedly put it, pucker up yourself.”

      “I’m not getting out of this chair to kiss you!  I’m the oldest.”

      “The relevance of that borders on… no, it sits squarely at zero on any scale of measurement.”

      “Still not moving.  Sherlock, you want kiss-and-make-up, then you get him over here.”

      “I am not touching Mycroft.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.”

      “His cold-fishedness is likely contagious and John would not be pleased as he greatly enjoys the level of my libido and proficiency of my sexual technique.”

      “Hey!  Mycie says he’s sexing up his old man nicely, so you might want to watch what you say.  He might give you the photographic evidence.”

      “I am leaving.”

      “Mycroft, baby bro just didn’t inherit the sexual dynamo genes, like we did.  Poor John… doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

      “I am now late for leaving.”

Mycroft watched his brothers spar and let a few more of the knots in his soul untangle.  Sherrinford was a blight, that was not debatable, but Sherlock connected well with him and, if he began to apply the same techniques he used when communicating with Sherlock to the second brother in his life… the blight could be manageable.  There had yet to be a plague of locusts that fully destroyed humanity, had there?  A close call now and then perhaps, but… manageable.

      “Then do remedy the situation, Sherlock.  And I am certain the others are very anxious to learn if anyone survived this confrontation, so our return to them is very likely in order.  Their imaginations do lean towards the violent and apocalyptic.  Sherrinford?  Shall we?”

      “I’ll… I’ll catch up to you two.”

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other and then at Sam, who was looking back at them with perfectly affected calm.

      “Explain your tone.”

      “I don’t have tone, Sherlock.  Can’t carry a tune even with a bucket.”

Mycroft took a step forward and noted the slight shift of Sherrinford’s position that kept one side of him angled so that it was obstructed from view.  Which side it was that was being shielded spiked the middle brother’s concern sharply.

      “Let me see you injury.”

      “Sorry, Mycroft.  No kiss, no skin.  Don’t you know the basics of sexy behavior?”

Mycroft cut eyes towards Sherlock who nodded and darted towards Sam, distracting him so Mycroft could come around from the other side and pull his brother’s arm out of the way to find… a growing blood stain seeping through his jacket.  A jacket which appeared to cover a jumper, as well as a shirt.

      “This does not convince me of your conviction to ameliorate your most tiresome behaviors, Sherry.”

Though Mycroft said it gently, because, as his brain reminded him, his brother had asked to postpone their discussion for a moment and Arthur had verified it was not to obtain alcohol… Arthur, who was the only one besides John who would be aware of the degree of his brother’s infirmity.

      “What can I say… I had other things on my mind.  Anyway, it’s nothing.  Just need a fresh Band Aid and I’ll be fine.”

      “Sherrinford, I am asking for candor… how are you?”

While it was clearly evident that his brother was forcing back the very large lie he was eager to roll off his tongue, Mycroft held fast and silent until Sam could manage the truth his brother wanted.

      “Not good.  I’ve… let’s just say I’ve not done a good job of being my own doctor.”

And, though it hurt Mycroft terribly to think about it, his brother’s frame of mind had not been conducive to ensuring he tended to his injury properly.  So like Sherlock in many, many ways…

      “Thank you for that.  I know… it was not an easy thing to share.  Will you allow John to help you?  If that is not acceptable, I shall obtain any physician you name or find a suitable candidate with whom you do not have a personal connection…”

      “It’s ok, Mycroft.  I’ll let John take a look.  Teeny fucker gets mad at me, it’s easy to shove him in my underwear drawer until he calms down.  So… here we go.  Little help?”

Sam raised his arms, letting Sherlock and Mycroft each take one to carefully lift him out of his chair.

      “Don’t worry, Skinny.  I made sure not to bleed on your upholstery.”

      “It matters not, for I intend to have any piece of furniture you soil with your person burned at the very first opportunity.”

      “Oh har dee har har… you should be a comedian.  Oh wait, you have to be funny to be a comedian.  My mistake.  I meant mortician.  You should be a mortician.  Your audience will already be dead so you can’t do them any more harm.”

      “I am now extremely late for leaving and am becoming very tired of this overheated and sibling-tainted room.”

      “You heard the baby, Mycroft… let’s get this show on the road.”

      “Please notify me if you feel lightheaded.  If you begin to faint, I would like forewarning so I may let you fall on the tile or hardwood and not one of my rugs.”

      “I feel some embarrassing stories coming on.  Sherlock, did Mycroft ever tell you about the time he got locked outside the house naked and Mummy had the local floral society over for a garden party?”

      “And who exactly was it, Sherrinford, that locked every door and window on the ground floor so I was unable to retreat indoors and, instead, had to hide in the shrubbery for three hours until the guests departed and I could retrieve a ladder to reach an upper floor?”

      “Come on, Mycroft… you can’t expect me to remember _every_ detail of my stories.  Seriously, get real.”

__________

      “Doctor Sam!  Mycroft!  Mr. Sherlock!  Hurray!  But… oh…”

Arthur jumped out of his chair and gave three quick hugs, making sure to stay well away from the sodden patch of Sam’s jacket.

      “John, would you please examine Sherrinford and, in the process, chastise him for his unexcelled idiocy?”

John nodded at Mycroft and, after a quick squeeze of Sherlock’s hand and a whispered ‘it looks like things went well’ in his ear, hooked Sam’s arm over his shoulders and helped the older man back out of the room and towards a free bedroom where, in all likelihood, the oldest Holmes would be spending the next several days, at minimum.

      “Mycroft?”

Mycroft smiled at Arthur and let out a large, cleansing sigh.

      “Sherrinford and I have come to some measure of agreement and… though we did not discuss the matter formally, I do not think you need worry further about another unexpected disappearance.  And Sherlock’s assistance was critical to the success of this endeavor, so thank you for your very forceful efforts to gain him entry into the study.”

      “Brilliant!  My squashed toe might hurt, but if my and Mr. Sherlock’s plan worked, then I don’t mind a bit.  Well, that little pill Doctor Watson gave me may also be helping me not mind a bit, too.  I did give my toe a fairly good squash, but it should be fine by morning.”

      “Your fortitude is inspiring, my boy, as is your dedication to peacekeeping.  Now… how are we to occupy our time this evening, now that the storm clouds have abated and we may all enjoy the pleasant and peaceful aftermath of the squall?”

      “I… we were going to watch a football match but… I think I should go and help Doctor Watson.”

      “Arthur, I am certain you still have a veritable bounty of questions to ask Dupin and... the other one.  I shall oversee Sherry’s neutering and you shall remain here to slake your thirst for details.”

      “Douglas!  Yes!  Brilliant!  Doctor Sam likes you, so you’ll make him smile and you know something about being a doctor, though not as much as me, but Doctor Watson will be doing most of the work so that won’t be very important.  Thank you!”

Arthur’s small shimmy was only partially impeded by his swollen big toe and Douglas used the eruption of free entertainment to beat a hasty retreat.  Not that he was worried about the oldest Holmes, of course.  That was ridiculous.  It was merely a kindness to young Arthur who had nearly been sick with worry about the outcome of the grand summit meeting.  And _he_ had yet to verify Doctor John Watson’s level of medical competence…

__________

As Arthur took his seat next to Martin and Sherlock claimed the chair Douglas had vacated, Mycroft moved towards Lestrade’s bed and sat in the chair that was closest to his beloved and, he suspected, had been left vacant especially for him.

      “Well, love?  Are you alright?”

Mycroft took his partner’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze, smiling reassuringly and laying a small kiss on Lestrade’s wrist before answering.

      “I am.  I would not have predicted it, but… I _am_ alright.  Much was said and… it was hard, but good to hear.”

      “And are we going to keep that old stray dog?”

      “It would be the height of cruelty to turn him out.  What are his chances for adoption by another family?  Slim to none… and I shall not be accused of hard-heartedness towards such a homely, feeble-minded mongrel.”

Lestrade laughed and shared a look with Mycroft that was easily interpreted by the politician as a promise for a long night in this bed where the true nature of their conversation would be shared and any emotions that resurfaced would be gently and lovingly washed away if they were dark and celebrated if they were light.  But, for now… he _was_ alright.  Strangely and curiously at peace.

      “Mycroft, Doctor Sam would make a very nice doggy.  Actually he reminds me a lot of Tramp from Lady and the Tramp.  And Lady was a brownish doggy with maybe a bit of red in her fur and Doctor Sam’s wife had red hair so that fits perfectly. Brilliant!”

Mycroft’s smile slowly morphed into a very pleased grin and Lestrade giggled at his partner’s amusement.  Tramp… that was perfect and the Detective Inspector knew, without question, that every time Sam was being a complete bastard, Mycroft would be mentally picturing him as a scraggly, flea-friendly, street dog.

      “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s pout made Martin roll his eyes and remind himself that not everyone had Arthur’s familiarity with the wonderful world of Disney.

      “It’s ok, Sherlock.  I’m sure we’ll be watching that film tomorrow, so you’ll see what the fuss is about.  And, it’s actually an entertaining film… the first eight or ten times you watch it.”

      “But Skip… we’ve watched Lady and the Tramp a lot more than ten times.  It’s one of my favorites!”

      “I know, Arthur.  I mean that after you’ve seen it over and over and over and over again it gets even better.”

      “It does!  It really, really does!”

Martin smirked evilly at Sherlock, knowing his cousin would soon be getting his fill of dogs and pasta noodles and wasn’t that a particularly wonderful form of torture.

      “Are wizards involved?”

      “No, Mr. Sherlock, there aren’t any wizards in the film.”

      “Then I may consent to watch it.”

      “Brilliant!  I know what we’re doing tomorrow night!”

And nothing could have pleased Mycroft more.  His family, under one roof and unbroken in bond.  It was a thing of wonder and he vowed to commit fully, with every resource he possessed, to keeping that family happy, safe and secure.

      “If you are deceiving me about wizards, however, rest assured that the only films your electronic gadgetry shall conjure in the future will be productions from second-rate film school students or, more appallingly, the BBC.”

      “We need to have a talk about your wizard phobia, Mr. Sherlock.”

      “The BBC, Arthur.  Consider yourself warned.”

Happy, safe and secure… with or without wizards…


	12. Chapter 12

      “Good lord, Sherry.  Did you lose a fight with a bear?”

Douglas tried to keep his voice light but, in truth, he was appalled by what he was seeing.  And he was pleased to see that John looked not a bit happier.  At least the man had _some_ degree of competence.

      “Now THAT would have been a story.  Damn, all I’ve got is a stupid ‘guy with a knife’ tale to tell and it really isn’t even that interesting.  I just got slow and stiff in my old age and made myself an easy target.”

Well, that particular story _did_ very much interest the First Officer, but the details could wait until there was less... ooze providing the full-color illustrations.

      “Stiff and slow doesn’t explain this, you bastard.  What did you do, find a bit of sewage and just rub it in on a bet?”

Sam’s rude noise at John was abruptly cut off by a not-entirely innocent poke at the war zone by the very angry doctor.

      “Shit just got out of hand.  Hah!  I said shit and you were talking about sewage.  I’ve still got my funny bone intact, at least.”

      “What is… you just... a toddler could have taken better care of themselves!”

      “And, as I have been told on numerous occasions, I don’t even _have_ the maturity of a toddler.”    

      “Can you... is it at all possible for you not to make jokes for one fucking minute!”

      “You’re cute when you’re angry, John.  I bet Babylock riles you up just so he can see that cute little face of yours right before he does filthy things to it”

      “Shut up.”

      “That’s a yes if I ever heard one.”

And, as Douglas listened to the back and forth two things were exceedingly clear.  His new friend was quite the judge of character and he was exceptionally poor at hiding his own motives with his inanity.

      “Oh, let the boy alone, old thing. He’s obviously out of his depth and you’re not one for the easy win when there are much greater victories to savor.”

      “Yeah, Douglas, you’re right.  John’s just too easy.  Which is _exactly_ what they said about him in Afghanistan.  I’ll be nice and let that particular sleeping dog lie.”

      “Are you two finished?”

      “If I say no are you going to cry?”

      “Dammit, Sam!  You’re probably septic and you don’t seem to care!”

      “Care schmare… just wipe things off a little then slap on some gauze…”

      “You… don’t say another word.  You have LOST the privilege of speaking for… until I say so!”

Sam made an elaborate show of locking his lips and shoving the imaginary key into a place where nobody was going to want to rummage for it.

      “This… this is a disaster.  If I don’t have to cut you open to scoop out the rot, I’ll be bloody surprised!”

Sam made another elaborate show of retrieving his key, complete with appropriate sound effects and a very thorough mimed washing before using it to unlock his lips.

      “Did that already.”

      “I cannot believe… back to silence, you.  Let me… I don’t know what I’m going to do, but you let me do it in peace.  Douglas, I hate to ask, but could you…”

      “Despite the rather mountainous degree of apathy I have for this situation, I will likely be far less bored if the current brow-furrowing dilemma is remedied.”

Trying to recall the silver of interest he’d had in medical matters once in his life, Douglas put on a brave face as he stepped close to serve as an extra pair of hands for John.  Luckily, his spare hands were reserved for pleasantly clean tasks and the vaguely horror-film-like materials associated with the activity remained blessedly off of his skin.

      “Now, if I tell you to get some rest, will you actually obey?”

      “John made a joke, Douglas, isn’t he precious?”

      “It’s obey or a needle, you bastard.”

      “This old hide’s too tough for your puny needles.”

      “You’re confusing yourself with a rhinoceros.  Again.”

      “Well, _my_ horn is at least…”

      “Stop.  Just stop.  Douglas, I’m leaving and if you have any sense you’ll be right behind me.”

      “Unlike you, John, I am made of stern stuff.”

      “Fine, but don’t come crying to me when Sam’s gone completely off his nut and you feel your brain melting in your skull.”

      “Arthur is well-practiced in handling the by-products of Martin’s frequent mental dissolution, so he shall have little trouble taking a mop to any impairment on my part.”

      “In other words, fuck off, John.”

John shot the two other men an appropriate gesture and carried away with him a very worrying handful of bandages.  Fortunately, when he nearly impacted Mycroft in the hallway, he was able to keep them away from the man’s expensive suit.  However, he could _not_ keep them away from Mycroft’s eyes.

      “Ah… I will make the assumption that Sherrinford’s injury has not shown improvement.”

      “Exactly the opposite, in fact.  Let me throw this away and we can talk about it.”

Before Mycroft could answer, John started towards the rear door, where he nipped out quickly to put the bandages and his gloves in the rubbish bin, which had surprised him the first time he found them.  It was odd, but it was very hard picturing as elegant a residence as Mycroft’s having bins.  With that done, he pointed Mycroft to the kitchen, where he took the opportunity to put on the kettle.

      “Sam’s always an idiot, it’s just who he is, but he’s not stupid.  He’s let his injury go from very bad to very worse and he had plenty of opportunity to avoid that happening.  Sam’s going to need some nastily strong antibiotics, so if you can have them delivered, that would be a help.”

Mycroft swallowed slightly and ignored the pang of worry that stabbed into his chest.

      “I shall have it attended to immediately.  He will… there shall be no lasting effects, shall there?”

John sighed and shook his head.

      “I don’t know.  Probably not, but that’s assuming I can get his infection under control and he doesn’t go septic.  Which he could be already.  And he could have avoided it all.  He _knew_ that and still let it happen.”

      “You… you are not implying Sherrinford intentionally allowed himself to become infected?”

      “No, not as such.  I just don’t think he cared enough to take steps to prevent it.”

Which was not, in any manner, a better condition, so far as Mycroft was concerned.

      “Mycroft, I don’t know what went on between you and Sam during your talk, but all of this… I honestly believe it affected him strongly.  Martin told me he looked in Sam’s room in Fitton and he had photos out, photos of you and Sherlock, as well as his wife and son.  Out, not in a box or bag, which means he was looking at them.  Looking at pictures of the people he’d loved and lost and I know that sounds overly sentimental, but… it is what it is.  You two may not ever be on good terms, but if, at least now and then, you could make some gesture, no matter how small, I think it would mean a great deal to him.”

John got up to make his tea and left Mycroft to think.  A gesture… it would not be overly burdensome to offer a gesture on occasion.  Consult his brother on a health matter or extend an invitation for dinner when Martin and Arthur were visiting.  It was highly likely that extended contact would result in one or both of them meeting an untimely death, but a few hours for some specific purpose… it was not unfeasible.  And what gestures Sherlock might choose to make were his brother’s own concern and he would not take steps to interfere in whatever relationship Sherrinford might be able to craft with their youngest brother.

      “I shall give your words due consideration, John.  I believe what you ask is not out of the question.”

      “Good.  You’re not the villain in any of this, Mycroft.  I don’t think there _is_ a villain, actually, so don’t think you suddenly have to bend over backwards to build bridges.  Just… don’t freeze him out.  Now that he’s had a chance to interact with you and Sherlock again… just don’t close the door completely if you can possibly help it.  Tea?”

      “Yes, please.  And a cup for Gregory, if you will.”

      “Something herbal and relaxing that’ll make him complain, but he’ll secretly enjoy?”

      “The very thing.”

      “Coming right up.  Make sure he does get some rest tonight, will you?  He’s been worried about of all of this and how it’s going to affect you.  Right now, I’d rather he not waste energy worrying when he doesn’t need to, so give him some reassurance that things are, at least, stable for now.”

      “I shall have a conversation with Gregory and lay to rest his concerns.”

      “Thanks.  He’s doing well, Mycroft, being here is a good thing for him.  He’s relaxed here, which actually surprises me.”

      “Oh?  Why?”

      “Greg’s like me, in a lot of ways.  I see all of this…”

John waved his arms around the spacious and very well-appointed kitchen.

      “… and I can’t say if I’d be comfortable living here.  I’d be a nervous wreck every time I came home and had mud on my shoes!  But it doesn’t seem to bother him and it’s just something I wouldn’t have expected.  At least not this soon.”

      “Gregory has fought his battles with the disparity of our means, but we… communication and honesty seems to be the most successful approach to addressing areas of problem between us.  It is not the most pleasant method, at times, but the results are undeniable.”

      “Now _that_ , I would have expected.  Greg’s not a simple person, but he _is_ a straightforward one. I know what you have to do for your work… well, actually I don’t, but I can at least vaguely guess… and I understand that sincerity and truth don’t always work to get you what you need.  He does, too.  As long as you can keep that world separate from what goes on inside these walls with him, you should be fine.”

If only John knew the difficulty of what he was asking… but it was not something on which he had not devoted a tremendous amount of thought and reflection.  The conclusion was much the same as for any initiative he had undertaken – do the very best possible and be prepared to address any areas of failure swiftly and thoroughly.

      “That’s especially going to be important while he’s dependent on you for so many things.  Greg’s going to need to trust you and he’s not going to hold up well to any more lies.  Once he’s on his feet and back at work, then he’ll be better able to handle any missteps.”

      “Something with which I cannot disagree.  But… you _do_ feel he shall return to work?  This is not an instance of bolstering Gregory’s spirits so he eagerly participates in his recovery, I hope.”

John sipped his tea and wished the answer was a simple one.

      “I’m standing by my original assessment.  You can never know 100% what will happen in the long term, because there are too many variables to deal with, but it’s not outside of range of possibility.  In fact, I feel a little more confident now that I’ve been able to monitor his rate of recovery and get a better of idea of what his body is capable of.  Once he’s a little further on, we can get him set up with phase 2 of his recuperation.”

      “Phase 2?”

      “The rebuilding phase.  Right now, he’s healing the damage he’s suffered.  When that’s done, he’ll have to rebuild himself, both physically and emotionally.  He still hasn’t really worked through his emotions about being shot and they’re definitely peeking out unexpectedly on him.  I’ll talk to Sam about it.  I wasn’t lying about that, Mycroft.  Sam is amazing in his abilities and… well, now it all makes sense doesn’t it!  An almighty Holmes wearing a stethoscope, it stands to reason he’d be at the top of his field.  And, all of this has finally answered my question about why he’s not at one of the really elite facilities making more money than he can count.”

      “He did not wish to attract attention that might ultimately lead to his discovery.”

      “Exactly.  He could have, though.  Believe me when I tell you that I take very seriously everything he says or does concerning Greg.  I don’t always agree with it, but I don’t always agree with what Sherlock does and he gets the same level of results.  Your brother is a hell of a doctor, Mycroft.”

There was no universe in which Mycroft would admit to the flash of pride he felt at John’s words.  In truth, it was most likely a delayed spike of heartburn from his rather spicy lunch.

      “I am certain Sherrinford would agree with you.  Rather colorfully, at that.”

      “Oh he would.  That’s if I can get his infection under control and he just doesn’t rot away from some flesh-eating bacteria.”

      “Then let me have your medication delivered.  If you provide me with a list of what you require, I will handle its acquisition.”

Mycroft got up and retrieved a pad of paper and pen to hand to John, who wrote his shopping list, adding a few extra things that were getting low in his normal supplies for Lestrade.  When he was done, he shoved the pad towards Mycroft who raised his eyebrows at John’s requests.

      “I am not entirely unaware of the field of pharmacology, John and… the nature and dosage of these antibiotics are… troubling.”

      “Yep.”

      “Sherrinford’s condition is that serious?”

      “Yep.”

      “I see.  His stupidity, apparently, knows no bounds.”

      “So, when Greg has a low period and refuses to even look at his physical therapist, you’re going to call him stupid?  Wow, that’ll be incredibly motivating.”

      “There is no comparison between Sherrinford’s idiocy and…”

      “Yes, there is.  Just… ever heard the expression about kicking a man while he’s down?  Try and keep that in mind if you can.”

John shot Mycroft a look, got up to fix Greg his cup of tea and Mycroft was highly displeased his glare was not sufficient to set the army doctor on fire.  However, never let it be said that Mycroft Holmes did not engage honorably in battle.  Very well, it was _most_ appropriate to say that Mycroft Holmes did not engage honorably in battle, but, when it was necessary, he could at the very least show mercy to his opponents.

      “I shall do my best.  As long as Sherrinford is infirm, I shall forestall the more mighty of my assaults, but when he is recovered I shall not show the same restraint.”

      “Did that hurt to say?”

Yes.

      “Of course not.  Good heavens, John, I am not some form of demon.”

      “Really, that’s not what Greg says.  Of course, he was referring to activities I’d rather not say aloud because my tongue will sever itself from my mouth and run away in horror.”

Now, _this_ flare of pride was absolutely warranted.

      “Covet not my carnal talents, Doctor Watson.  You do not wear the green of envy with any degree of success.  I shall now take Gregory his tea and arrange for Sherrinford’s medications.   Kindly do not harbor impure thoughts about me in my absence.”

John shuddered strongly and Mycroft smirked once he had turned away from the man quaking in the center of his kitchen.  Silly John, taking on the master was never a successful game plan.

__________

Douglas pursed his lips and glared down at the man waving at him from the bed.

      “I had thought, being cursed to confinement for extended periods with Martin and Arthur, that I had witnessed the heights to which stupidity could rise, but I find that, again, you exceed my expectations nicely.”

      “You say the sweetest things.  Wanna neck?”

      “You are neither young enough nor sufficiently buxom to garner my interest.”

      “Oh well, you win some, you lose some.”

Douglas drew a chair close to the bed and propped his feet on the mattress, smiling evilly as the jolt brought a bark of pain from the foolish doctor.

      “Fuck you and your size EEEE feet!

      “Consider it a paltry repayment for being forced to nearly glimpse your unsavory insides.”

      “My insides could win awards!  Take a few photos and you could hang them in a museum.”

      “That I could.  There is a lovely museum of human oddities, if I remember correctly, and they would pay a pretty pound for evidence of your grotesqueness.  If you would be so kind as to expire peacefully, the purchase price for your cadaver would fund my next holiday quite nicely.”

      “I’ll put that in my will, Douglas, old pal.  I die and you can peddle my carcass to whoever will give you the best price.”

      “Our friendship is a model for the ages, Sherry.”

      “I expect the statue erection to begin shortly.  And, yes, I mean that in more than one way.”

      “Without doubt.  However… may I ask what exactly brought you to this unholy state?  The eight and a half minutes I spent in medical school _did_ teach me a thing or two and one does not fall into such a state of decay without some forewarning.”

      “Nothing to tell, really.  I just kept putting off doing anything about it.  I’d have gotten around to fixing things on my own if John hadn’t butted his pert little butt into things and done it for me.”

      “Your attempt to camouflage the truth is truly pitiful to behold.”

Sam’s rude noise was met by Douglas’s dismissive wave and the two stared at each other until Sam finally heaved as big a sigh as his pain could manage.

      “What do you want to know?”

      “Oh, many things, but shall we begin with the reason for this return to London?  We have enjoyed a number of scintillating conversations on any manner of subjects, yet not one has touched on anything that could be called personal.  Normally, I would find this highly agreeable, however…”

      “You want the whole kit and caboodle or the abbreviated version.”

      “The night is young and the longer I am in here, the less time I have to suffer whatever film Arthur has mined from the depths of Rock Candy Mountain.”

      “Ok, the entire enchilada is coming your way.  Hope your colon is ready for it.”

Despite his silent decision that he would give the very abbreviated version of his personal history, once he began, Sam found himself incapable of holding back the details of his youth, his early years in America where many of his behaviors could embarrassingly be called illegal on top of immoral, the salvation of his marriage and family, the devastation when that was ripped from him, the lonely years that followed and the current history of his time in London.  When he was done he felt as if he’d run a marathon and realized that this was the first time he’d ever given the full picture of his life.  The one that wasn’t edited for time or content.  Even his wife never had the full story which was, and always would be, an intense source of shame.

      “Well… I did ask for the unabridged version.  I didn’t realize it was something to rival War and Peace in length and cast of characters.”

      “Knowing me comes with a whole gravy boat of surprises.”

      “I _am_ sorry about your family, Sherry.  Divorce is difficult, but the light of my life is still with me and available to visit on occasion.  I cannot fathom the depth of your pain and I am truly sorry for it.”

      “Thanks.  It’s tough sometimes, but I manage.”

      “Really?  I believe I have gathered a portfolio of evidence to refute that claim.”

Sam laughed and had to admit Douglas was nobody’s fool.

      “Yeah, ok.  How about I get by day to day?  I know I’m a massive fuck up, but I’m also a killer doctor and a jaunty raconteur and that’s not bad if you get right down to it.”

      “True, and I am quite certain Arthur would deem you brilliant and offer you a trophy made of candy floss, however, I believe it’s time to move forward from ‘getting by’ to something slightly more… fulfilling.”

      “Too old.  Leave that for the younger generation.”

      “Which contradicts sharply your ability to win the affections of the lovely young woman who happily provided you with her mobile number.”

Sam laughed again and felt himself losing some of the bile that had been sitting sourly in his stomach.

      “Well, it’s not my fault if I’m a sexy old man.”

      “And shall you be remaining in London where the value of a sexy old man cannot be overestimated?”

      “You make a good case for it, I do admit.  And… maybe.  I don’t know.  Part of me still feels that even if Mycroft and I can get along well enough to avoid killing each other, it might be a happier option for both of us if we had an ocean between our swords and pistols and shared a Happy Birthday on the phone once a year.”

      “However, though it pains me to say, I believe Dupin would not appreciate that ocean of demilitarized zone.  And how Arthur would react… really, only the most blackhearted of men could extinguish the birthday-candle glow of his smile.”

      “It’d be like kicking a puppy, wouldn’t it?”

      “The smallest, fluffiest, happiest, most trusting of puppies.  Who sleeps with a teddy.”

      “Oh god… I’m doomed.”

      “We can begin scanning the listings tomorrow for your new residence.  I take it Arthur’s subjugation of you does not extend to keeping you here so that he can reach you, that policeman fellow and the stork with a single phone call.”

      “Hell no!  Not going to be a cowbird in this love nest, thank you very much.  I mean, I’m a man of the world, but listening to baby brother scream Greg’s name every night isn’t going to happen.”

      “Thank you for that positively ghastly mental image.  Flat hunting it is, then.”

      “And you’re not fooling me, you know.  You’re actually don’t give a shit if I stay in this burg except that it gives you a free place to crash when you visit London and a wingman when you’re out on the town.”

      “Is there a better reason for my wanting you to remain in London?”

      “Not one I can think of.”

      “Then there we have it.  Fancy a beverage?  Listening to you whine and bleat has left me parched.”

      “Beer.”

      “I counter with tea.”

      “Tea makes me menstrual.”

      “Then apple juice shall be the choice du jour.”

      “Player can’t even get a beer in this joint.  What a rip off.”

      “Antibiotics are certainly to be a part of your medical regimen for the time being and alcohol isn’t a good mix with them, if I remember correctly.”

      “You do not.  Sort of.  Ok, yeah, sometimes, but not likely the crap John’s going to pump me full of.  I’m clear for beer.”

      “Yet, strangely, I am not racing to procure for you a bottle of it.  Apple juice or some acceptable substitute if you prefer.  In fact, I believe I shall surprise you.  I’m sure your brother has a kitchen positively laden with potables.”

      “Like beer.”

      “The juvenility of your current argument again contradicts your assertion of agedness.  Do try and maintain _some_ consistency in your behaviors, Sherry.”

Sam’s gesture of response was met with another by Douglas as he exited the room to pull together a beverage-and-biscuit tray.  It was actually little surprise that when he reached the kitchen Arthur was in residence, seemingly gathering a quantity of snack food sufficient for preparation for the end of days.

      “Arthur, do you intend to consume every calorie in the house or are you using the food products to construct some form of fort.”

      “Douglas!  Oh, that would be a lot of fun wouldn’t it, but no… Mycroft brought Greg a little tea and I thought it would be a nice time for some snacks or dinner or snacks before dinner.  We’re going to have snacks.”

      “Well, I hope you left something for me to scavenge.  Sherry is very much resembling a frog lying in wait for a fly and I, for one, would like to sample what the likely £250/bottle apple juice Mycroft purchases tastes like.”

      “Mycroft gets the best juice!  The nice lady who I can call or email to place a grocery order makes sure that whatever I ask for is absolutely brilliant!  Once, we were talking about baby fruits and… you won’t believe this… she not only had them deliver teeny tiny baby bananas, but also some itty bitty tomatoes that were as sweet as fruits!  Here, hold on…”

Arthur dashed to the refrigerator and brought out five different containers of juice that spanned the color spectrum nicely.

      “I don’t think Mycroft is much of a juice drinker, at least not like I am, but Greg needs lots of vitamins right now and juice is bursting with vitamins!”

Should he?  He should.

      “Arthur, you do know they make machines that allow juice aficionados to create their own from fresh fruits and, dare I say it, vegetables, as well.”

Arthur’s face contorted itself into exactly the expression it would take if he learned that he had won the Toblerone lottery.

      “No.”

      “Yes.”

      “They do?”

      “Absolutely.  And I have a suspicion that Daddy Warbucks, I mean, Mycroft, would be happy to provide his kitchen with a suitable model.  In fact, I would not be at all surprised if he placed one in your kitchen, also, enabling you to experiment with your own trademark blends so that he might receive the recipes to prepare for his ailing partner.”

      “Really?”

      “Of course!  Is there anyone better suited to concoct the perfect blend of vitamins and palatability as you, a man who has imbibed more juice than anyone on the planet?”

      “NO!  No there isn’t!  That is a brilliant idea!  Thank you, Douglas!”

      “You’re quite welcome.  But, the look on your face right now and on Martin’s when you announce your new hobby are thanks enough.”

      “Hurray!  Skip _will_ be pleased, too.  It makes him happy when I’m busy with something, isn’t that wonderful of him!”

      “It is the hallmark of a quality fiancé.”

      “That’s what I think, too.  Oh!  But I forgot about Doctor Sam and his fly!”

      “I think that’s something Sherry hasn’t often heard, actually.”

      “No, I suppose not. But… how is he?  Skip said I should give him some time to relax before I checked in on him and I knew you’d keep him company, but…”

      “Sherry is doing exactly as well as someone who should not be entrusted with the health of a piece of moldy cheese can be.  However, since John did not, so far as I am aware, contact the nearest mortuary and reserve a slab, I think we can strike imminent death off our list of concerns.”

      “Double hurray!”

      “And, if I tell you that His Lordship has agreed to begin the search for a new flat tomorrow, shall that merit a triple hurray?”

Douglas actually took a step backwards, because Arthur honestly appeared as if he was about to explode with excitement.

      “Triple hurray!  Even… what do you say for four hurrays?”

      “Quadruple.”

      “Quadruple hurray!  Oh… can I say quadruple hurray to Doctor Sam in person?”

Hmmmm…. Sherry really did need his rest, but if he said yes, _Arthur_ could carry their refreshments back to the room.

      “I think that’s a marvelous idea.  Why don’t you choose something appropriate from your juice selection to serve Sherry and me and a particularly nice package of biscuits for our enjoyment?”

      “Right!  Yes!  Mycroft has these very nice buttery biscuits that are brilliant with apple juice and also the pineapple juice, so I’ll mix them together, the juices, not the juices and the biscuits, though that could be very nice, too.  Do you think I have time to…”

      “Pour the juices into glasses and put the biscuits on a plate, yes.  Anything else, no.”

      “No?”

      “No.  At this juncture, I suspect Sherry’s constitution will only withstand simpler offerings.  You wouldn’t want to overtax him and sap what little remains of his vitality, would you?”

      “I most certainly would not.  But I am going to keep my Juice and Biscuit Blended…”

      “Bandersnatch?  Bamboozler?  Braggadocio?”

      “Brilliant Breakfast at Bedtime!”

      “That is simply spectacular.”

      “Thank you, I’m rather proud of it, too.”

__________

      “Doctor Sam!”

      “Arthur, you son of a gun, how are you?”

      “Oh drat.  That was the question _I_ was going to ask.”

      “It’s ok for two people to ask the same question, kid.”

      “Then, hi Doctor Sam!  How are you?”

      “Feeling very not dead at the moment.  But I see you have grub, so I’ll even go so far as to say I’m fantastic.”

      “Quadruple hurray!  Oh, but I was saving that for the news about your new flat.  Can I use it twice or is it too much what with us both asking the same question?”

      “You can absolutely use it twice, but if you want to save it for when you actually see the new digs, then that’s ok, too.”

      “Yes!  That’s a brilliant idea!  That way I won’t have to think about what to say when I visit for the first time.  And here… no, not here.  Douglas, can you help me help Doctor Sam sit up?”

Douglas shook his head no and Sam chuckled at Arthur’s shock.

      “I can sit up fine, Arthur.  I was just taking it easy.  Hold on.”

Slowly and only with a silently-screaming amount of agony, Sam sat up and leaned back against the headboard of the bed.

      “Tah dah!”

Douglas gave Sam a very disapproving look over Arthur’s shoulder but the doctor just grinned merrily, hoping like hell that sweat wasn’t visible on his face.

      “Ooh… that doesn’t look comfortable because your ears are tight like they get when you’re in pain.”

      “I can honestly say nobody’s ever informed me of that particular symptom.”

      “Well, it’s true.  When you’ve had your juice and biscuits, you’re going to lie right back down so your ears can relax.”

      “Sounds good.  Douglas, you joining me?”

      “Seeing it was I who foraged for this delicious repast, I would say it’s guaranteed.”

And to cement his declaration, Douglas took the biscuits away from Arthur, as well as his juice, and reclaimed his seat, tossing a biscuit onto Sam’s lap as a consolation prize.  Arthur tsk-tsked and handed Sam his juice, picking up a few more biscuits to place carefully next to their cheekily-flung brother.

      “So, where are you going to live?”

      “Tomorrow, Arthur.  I’m going to start to look _tomorrow_.”

      “Ok, but where?”

      “How can I answer that since right now is not tomorrow?”

      “But you can know _where_ you’re going to look, right?  Which part of London?  What you’ll be close to and what you can see and visit?”

      “Hmmm… let me guess.  You want me to find a place that’s close to here, but also close to Sherlock and John, and, simultaneously, right in the center of the most fun part of London with the best things to do and the best places to eat and the best parks to visit.  And, it should have two… no, three… bedrooms and friendly neighbors and a swimming pool.  It should also allow pets and have a huge kitchen and a big wall to mount a massive television.”

      “YES!”

      “Dougie, think you can put in a call to my fairy godmother and get the ball rolling on that?”

      “Sorry, Sherry.  My arm has suddenly contracted a case of palsy.”

      “Oh no!”

      “He’s kidding, Arthur.  But, I can tell you right now that putting all of that together in a colorful box with a pretty bow isn’t going to happen.  I’ll do my best, though.  Why don’t you pull together a list for me of all the things you think would make for the best possible apartment and I’ll keep it in hand while we scan the rental listings.”

      “Oh, I will.  A _big_ list.  You should have an amazing flat since you’re going to be in London for a long time.  Right?  A _loooooong_ time?”

      “Someone else who needs a crash pad.  Man, I never thought I’d be _that_ guy.  All I need is a station wagon to haul all you leeches around, too.”

      “Come again?”

      “Sherrinford is having a small relapse of Yankee.  Pay him no heed, Arthur.”

      “Relapse, my ass.  I bleed red, white and blue!”

      “Doctor Sam… I have seen quite a bit of your blood and I know you’re telling a fib.”

      “Yeah, you’re right, kid.  I’m just going to shut up now and drink my colorful liquid.”

      “And we are all better off for it.  Arthur, don’t you have a buffet to set out for the remaining denizens of Chez Holmes?”

      “Yes!  I forgot about that.  Doctor Sam, are you going to be alright for awhile?”

      “As long as Douglas doesn’t steal my fuc… gosh darned cookies, I’ll be fine.”

      “Ok then.  I’ll stop by later and check on you.  You can call me on my phone if you need anything, though.  Or just to talk.  Or watch a film while we’re watching a film and we can watch the same film so we can talk about it later.”

      “Sounds good.  See you later.”

Arthur smiled broadly and hurried out of the room, with Sam chuckling at the boy’s enthusiasm.

      “You know, when he and Martin get a few kids in their pocket, they’re going to be the luckiest kids in the world.”

      “And Martin shall lose his hair from anxiety over every little scrape on their knees and tear on their cheeks.”

      “Pretty much like every other self-respecting dad.”

      “Absolutely.  He shall simply take it to a level heretofore unknown to mankind.”

      “You’re already thinking about a new video camera to record him going slowly insane, aren’t you?”

      “Some things simply must be recorded for posterity.”

      “And for viewing at family dinners.”

      “That goes without saying.”

__________

Lestrade kept an eye on his lover as the evening progressed and was proud of himself that Mycroft’s composure wasn’t able to fool him.  Whatever Mycroft and his brother had discussed was still sitting heavy on his partner’s mind and the Detective Inspector had his fingers crossed that everyone would call it an evening soon, so he could get Mycroft to open up about what had transpired.  And Lestrade certainly didn’t miss the slightly pleased expression that flashed across the middle Holmes’s face for the very briefest of moments when Arthur share the news about Sam’s upcoming flat-hunting mission.  Mycroft would probably say it was because it meant his brother was not expecting to stay in _this_ house for any length of time, but Lestrade had a suspicion there was a lot more to it than that.

      “But I don’t want to go to bed!”

Martin rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath to cleanse the past few hours of musical comedy out of his system.

      “Arthur… it’s been a long day and I’m tired.  Everyone is tired.  And, the earlier we get to bed, the earlier we can get tomorrow started.  I’m sure you have a full slate of ideas for what to do and want as much time as possible for them.  Come on, love.  Let’s get some rest.”

Arthur hesitated, looking between Martin, Mycroft, the telly, the remainder of the snacks and finally gave Martin the nod the pilot was hoping for.

      “I _do_ have a lot of things on my ‘We’re in London!’ list.”

      “And we’ll take every minute of tomorrow to see how many we can scratch off.”

It only took a little more nudging and tugging to actually get Arthur on his feet and waving goodnight as Martin pulled him out the door, which Sherlock took as his sign to do the same to John, though sleep was not exactly the activity that was on his mind.  This left Mycroft alone with Lestrade, a fact that both men found a very welcome thing.

      “Such a zest for life and what it offers.  Cousin Martin is certainly blessed with his choice of fiancé.”

      “I suspect Arthur feels the same way about the man he chose.  Now, how about I get a little time with the man _I_ chose?”

Lestrade patted his bed and smiled invitingly, even facing Mycroft’s slight frown of disapproval.

      “Gregory… I am of the growing opinion that you are incapable of sleeping alone.”

      “I am.  I can’t.  Pity me.  Right here in this spot, give me all your pity.”

      “Appealing to your commitment to your health and welfare will attain me nothing, will it?”

      “It will attain you everything.  What could be better for my health and welfare than you right here next to me, keeping me warm and in good spirits?”

      “There shall be no licentiousness, Gregory Lestrade.  You need your rest after this trying day.”

      “Just a little body-heat sharing, Mycroft.  You’d swear I was preparing to tie you down and commit unspeakable acts on your helpless body.  I’ll have you know I’m saving that for your birthday.”

There simply was no one more perfect for him than this impish man with his luminous smile.

      “I shall make certain to clear my calendar for the event.”

And, after only a slight hesitation, Mycroft changed into this pyjamas and slid next to Lestrade, carefully positioning himself around his lover’s body.

      “See, love, isn’t this better than sleeping alone?”

      “Indubitably.  I am simply concerned for you, Gregory.  John describes your progress as most encouraging and nothing can be allowed to interfere with that.”

      “It’ll take more than you rubbing my belly to run the train of my health off the tracks.”

An action which had become something of a habit whenever he lay near his Gregory.  Not that he directed his fingers to begin tracing circles on the luscious expanse of skin… it was merely that they had their own agenda and he saw no reason to step in and curtail their initiative.

      “Be that as it may, a modicum of caution is always warranted.”

      “You know… what’s your mattress like?”

The scamp… it was as if the word ‘caution’ was from some foreign tongue of which his lover spoke not a word.

      “It is exceedingly comfortable; however, I do not believe it will provide you suitable support at this stage of your healing.”

      “Damn.”

      “Soon enough, Gregory.  I daresay that only a handful of weeks stands between you and that particular goal.”

      “Handful!  Have you seen my hands?  They can hold a lot!”

And, again, his lover lays his own creative and confounding perspective onto their argument.

      “Very well, what standard of measure would you prefer?”

      “Fingers.”

      “You are quite single-minded tonight, my dear.”

      “Filthy man.  Which I hope never changes.  Anyway, I say fingers and the number is two.  See, look at me using a visual aid.”

Two fingers waggled in his face gave Mycroft more than one lascivious thought, and catching them in his mouth did nothing to return his mind to the business of negotiation.

      “Filthy, _filthy_ man.  And don’t think that’s not a powerful motivator for me to get myself back to top shape.  But, I’m saying two weeks is the number.  If I can do it sooner, great, but two weeks is the maximum.  I’ve already been in this bed forever…”

      “ ‘ntru.”

      “It _is_ true and stop sucking my fingers or licentiousness is back on the table.”

Mycroft slowly released his prisoners and tried to emulate Arthur’s most powerful example of puppy eyes, grinning inwardly when Lestrade huffed his defeat placed a kiss on his nose.

      “I’m going to ask Sam what it will take to get me out of this bed in two weeks or less and I bet he’ll have a plan to make it happen.”

      “And John’s opinion?”

      “Oh, I’ll probably ask him first, but talking about John wouldn’t give me the opening to ask about your brother, now would it?”

An incomparable opponent…

      “Ah… how masterfully you maneuver me into your snare.”

      “Bollocks.  Now… we don’t have to talk about a thing, but I want you to know that I’m here for you if you _do_ want to talk.  And not just this minute, but anytime.”

      “I know, my dear, and I love you for the devotion you have shown me after our turbulent history.  In truth… it was an illuminating conversation.  I believe that both of us have labored these years under a sadly skewed impression of our relationship.  It was not easy to hear his viewpoint and it was obvious that he experienced the same hearing mine.”

For the next few minutes, Mycroft detailed his conversation with Sam, including the insertion of Sherlock into the situation and the youngest brother’s contribution to the discussion.  When he was done, there was a palpable sense of relief settling into his bones and it felt as if the last of a massive, lingering weight was lifting from his shoulders.

      “Ok… that’s a lot to take in, but not as much as finding out you had a brother in the first place.  You know what it reminds me of, don’t you?”

      “I do and the thought has been ever-present in my mind.  Have I misjudged Sherlock, Gregory?  Do I see his behaviors differently than do others?  Am I viewing our relationship through an unnecessarily darkened lens?”

      “Honestly, Mycroft, I think that any relationship is viewed differently by the people involved.  If you read through statements from domestic cases, it’s often like the people involved are talking about two different lives on two different planets.  That’s why it’s important to communicate, but you and Sam didn’t get that chance.  You and Sherlock… well, heart-to-hearts aren’t either of your most comfortable areas.  I think if Sam had stayed around, you and he wouldn’t have grown so… hostile because, at some point, he would have just pinned you to the wall and forced your opinion out of you and given you his in return.  And, maybe with him in the picture, you and Sherlock might have had a common opponent to battle.  Older brothers seem to either get worshipped or vilified and I think you two would have ganged up on him and maybe grown a little closer because of it.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t use this experience to try and change things, even after all this time.”

And another layer of relief infiltrating his frame.  At least his lover hadn’t confirmed his worst fear that he had somehow completely misread the situation with Sherlock as he had with Sherrinford.  And, as importantly, believed that there was still hope for matters to improve.  Of course, that meant engaging in true and meaningful communication with Sherlock.  There were far easier things in the universe to accomplish… like creating a black hole with the power of his mind.

      “As always, you bring clarity to the most complex situation.  And soothe my worries that the matter is not unsalvageable.”

      “If it helps, I think Sherlock has been getting his own plate of new perspectives lately and might be more willing to… _listen_ if you have something to say to him.  It’s going to depend on what you want to do, and that goes for Sam, too.  I’ve got the impression that you’re not as hopeful he vanishes into thin air as you were before.  I noticed, for example, that you didn’t grimace when Arthur said Sam was going to be looking for a flat.”

      “I admit the revelation did not pain me as it might have before Sherrinford and I engaged in our discussion.”

      “Just so long as he doesn’t move in next door.”

Mycroft shuddered in horror at that thought and Lestrade laughed at his partner’s visceral comment.

      “As I am thankful Sherlock is not a neighbor, I believe it is best for all involved if Sherrinford also avoids that label.”

      “But you won’t be upset if, once I’m able, I ask Sam to come out with John and me for a pint now and then, will you?  It’s still hard to picture the man I talk cars and debate brands of crap food with as a Holmes, but… in some ways he’s just an ordinary bloke like me and one that’s easy to talk to, at that.”

      “I would not mind in the slightest.  Whatever brings you enjoyment is most agreeable to me.  If pressed, preferably by some form of steamroller, I would admit that Sherrinford has been good company for you during this difficult time.  There shall always be areas where I will not be able to hold with you a highly fulfilling conversation, so I gladly encourage you to associate with those who do.  And who might participate with you in activities you find enjoyable.”

      ‘You’re not getting out of coming to a match with me, Mycroft.”

Gregory was nothing if not attuned psychically to his conniving.

      “Perish the thought!  However, I shall not be able to attend as frequently as others, due to my work demands.  I would not desire for you to suffer the attrition of your social life simply because I cannot participate as often as I might wish.”

      “You almost made that sound convincing.”

      “I do try.”

      “Don’t worry, love.  I have no intention of trying to turn you into one of the lads at the pub.  I love you just the way you are and don’t ever want you to change.  But, I figure that if I can pour myself into a tuxedo or some expensive suit you’ve bought for me, you can manage casual clothes for a night at the cinema or a less-rowdy match.”

      “By what criteria will ‘less rowdy’ be determined?”

      “Depends on who is playing against my side.  Some teams… I just cross my fingers I don’t have to call in the riot squad and make sure to keep a baton taped to my leg.”

      “GREGORY!”

Lestrade giggled at Mycroft surge of protective anger and reminded himself yet again how wonderful it felt to actually be loved.

      “I’m exaggerating, Mycroft.”

A little.

      “But some combinations don’t make for the quietest of events, so I’ll try and keep you away from those.”

      “And you shall have my deepest gratitude.  Consider Sherrinford a viable substitute for those cases.”

      “I will!  He’s a fair head-cracker, I have a feeling… especially if your story about how you got your concussion is to be believed.”

      “Oh, it is.  Sherry demonstrated surprising skill in hand-to-hand combat.  I dare not think what he could do with a weapon.”

      “Perfect!  See, the old bastard has his uses, after all.”

Actually, now that Mycroft considered it, there _was_ merit in that statement.  For those occasions where he could not provide the entertainment his partner craved, Sherrinford would not be an appalling choice to stand in his stead especially since the festering boil was a deft hand at self-defense.

      “I suppose.  However, it is just as likely that he will be the instigator of whatever altercation you are forced to battle through.”

      “Yeah, well… I’ve been known to throw the first punch a time or two.”

      “You?  Utterly ridiculous.  You are the soul of diplomacy and composure.”

      “Aren’t you sweet telling those enormous lies with a straight face?  I think that deserves a little reward, don’t you?”

And his lover’s wandering hand gave Mycroft a very good idea of what the reward might entail.

      “Gregory, you agreed to a, shall we say, sedentary evening.”

      “That was before you got me talking about football.  That always gets my blood boiling.”

      “I shall make note of that for the future.”

      “The future’s not now, though.”

Did anyone have as talented hands as his Gregory?  If there was, they should be kept well away from the public as chaos and disorder likely followed in their pleasure-inducing wake.

      “No, it certainly is not.”

      “So we can have a more of an active evening than originally planned?”

      ‘S…slightly more active.”

      “I can do slightly.  I can do it very well, actually.”

Not something Mycroft would ever dream of rebutting because the statement was inarguably true.  And, for the next half hour or so, his Gregory would prove to him just how delicious _slightly more active_ could be…

__________

Arthur lay in bed next to Martin, gently playing with the sleeping pilot’s curls.  This was what he liked best in this world.  As much as he adored racing around London with Mr. Sherlock on a case, flying on GERTI, having this brand new family around him watching films or seeing the sights… this was the very, very best part of his day.  He and Mr. Sherlock talked a lot about brains, because they both had the same problem when it came to getting them to stop spinning like little tops that the kiddies played with and Mr. Sherlock said that it took the right thing, the very specific and right thing, to make his brain take a bit of a rest and just focus on one thing or even _no_ things, which was also nice sometimes.  He wouldn’t say what that thing was, but it was a very good bet that it had something to do with Doctor Watson, just as _his_ one thing had to do with Skip.

When they were flying or walking in the park or visiting a museum or skipping stones or the other things they did when they were having a brilliant time, his brain didn’t slow down very much.  A little, but it was still singing and dancing in his head, noticing everything around them and how brilliant it all was and how much he wanted to see everything and touch everything and learn about everything and… well, even he knew he could be a bit difficult to handle when it all started to happen and he got very excited over something hew and marvelous.  Or old and marvelous.  There wasn’t much that wasn’t marvelous, actually, and that was part of the problem.  The world was just a marvelous place and the people were marvelous people and the animals were marvelous animals…

But when he was lying here and it was just him and Skip and Skip wasn’t saying lots of marvelous things that kept his brain jumping around trying to snatch up all the marvelousness… his brain could take a little rest and it was simply brilliant.  Even at home, alone in his own bed, his brain took forever to settle down to go to sleep and then he’d have dreams about marvelous things and people and sometimes woke up just as tired as when he went to sleep!  But with Skip, that wasn’t the case.  Maybe it was the way his Skip smelled or how his skin was as soft as bunny fur or that he was small enough to cuddle with very nicely or the little cute snores he made when he was sleeping or how he talked about planes even though he wasn’t awake… maybe it was how he was just the right amount of warm to want to hold and never let go or that Skip would sometimes just nestle in closely like he was trying to burrow into a den and it meant that he felt safe and protected and happy with the person he was snuggling against…

In a few days they’d have to return to Fitton and that meant Skip would go to his little flat and he would go home and, even though he was excited to see Mum, it meant he wouldn’t get to sleep like this very often.  It would be nice to be flying again, that was just brilliant, but… at night he and Skip wouldn’t be able to do this.  Or have a nice breakfast together.  His brain would run and run and not even get a happy breakfast in the morning!  And he wouldn’t get to hold Skip and run fingers through his lovely curls… he wouldn’t get to do anything except once in awhile and that… that was certainly not brilliant.  And the few times he could get this would just make the times he couldn’t even more miserable and that… that was less brilliant than certainly not brilliant, which was already not very brilliant at all.  It wasn’t right and it wasn’t really fair to him or to Skip…

As slowly and carefully as he could, Arthur crept out of bed and made sure his fiancé was tucked in snugly before he tiptoed towards the bedroom door and shut it quietly behind him.  Continuing to tiptoe so as not to wake anyone, the steward made his way to Mycroft’s study and peeked in to check if anyone was awake and wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock working on Mycroft’s computer.

      “Mr. Sherlock, you’re awake.”

      “Very good, Arthur.  We have verification that your eyes are functioning properly.”

      “Hurray!”

      “Why, however, are they not closed and the rest of your body not in bed?”

      “Oh, I made my brain start to work, so I couldn’t sleep.”

      “Ah… I understand.”

      “I knew you would.  Is that why you’re awake?”

      “In a sense.  There are some features of an experiment I’ve been working on that require concentrated research time and this is the first opportunity I’ve had.”

      “Oh, that makes sense.  Sometimes, when I get an idea about a new recipe, I use my computer to learn all about what I want to put into it and you can really learn a lot about fruits and vegetables and things once you get started.  But… would you mind if I asked you a question?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, gazing at Arthur above the tips.  From the tone, Arthur’s question was not an inconsequential one.

      “Go ahead.”

      “Ok.  Is it alright to change my mind?”

      “Is this a philosophical conundrum or is there a specific set of circumstances at your question’s foundation?”

      “Come again?”

      “What does your question even mean, Arthur?”

      “Oh!  Yes… well, once I’ve made a decision about something, even a very, very, very important decision, is it alright to change my mind?”

Very icy tendrils began to wind through Sherlock’s veins and the thick and heavy dread that rose up almost made the detective rethink following through with this interrogation.

      “Barring a written contract where legal action might be taken if you changed your mind, there is no reason why you cannot retract a decision made on an issue.  Of course… that should likely come after a thorough reexamination of all possible variables that result in a substantial argument against your original position.”

      “But it _is_ possible?”

      “All things are possible, Arthur.  It is simply whether or not they are… correct… that is the issue.”

      “Ok… I have to talk to Mycroft.”

This, at least, was only confusing and not worrying.

      “Mycroft?”

      “Yeah… and Greg.  I probably should have said Greg first, so I understand why you’re confused.”

If only Sherlock could have claimed the same.

      “Quite.  Arthur, do you… would it be helpful if I accompanied you to speak with Lestrade and my brother?”

      “Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.  I’m not sure if it would be helpful, but you can come if you’d like.  You’ll hear soon enough, but there’s no reason you can’t hear now.”

And back was the worry that was making Sherlock wonder if he should go and wake John to participate in whatever was about to occur.

      “Then I will.”

      “Ok.  But we really should go now before I change my mind again.”

Sherlock was out of the chair and stalking after Arthur, who continued to tiptoe once in the hall, despite Sherlock’s only slightly-intentional heavy tread.  At Mycroft and Lestrade’s door, however, Arthur stopped and stared at the wood a moment before turning an ‘oops’ face in the detective’s direction.

      “Oh… well.”

      “Arthur?”

      “I rather forgot they’d probably be sleeping.  Maybe I should wait until morning.”

      “Won’t that defeat the purpose of speaking to them now so you did _not_ change your mind yet again?”

      “Yes, yes it would.  And I really, really don’t think I should change my mind, no matter how much I really, really do want to change my mind so it’s not like I changed it ever at all in the first place.”

      “Come again?”

      “I’m going to knock.”

      “Very well.  I shall observe.”

Arthur knocked on the door so softly, if he had done it on a housefly’s skull, the insect would have scarcely had a bristle pushed out of place.

      “Arthur… whereas Mycroft’s hearing is highly developed, not even he…”

      “May I help you?”

Years of training had enabled Mycroft to answer the knock politely without even a trace of drowsiness in his voice.  Fortunately, Lestrade’s ‘for fuck’s sake’ was only audible within the bedroom itself.

      “Mycroft?  It’s me.  Arthur Shappey.  Can I come in?”

Two thoughts collided in Mycroft’s head like a pair of billiard balls.  First, Arthur would not be disturbing them at this hour for anything other than a significant reason.  Second, it was a very lucky happenstance that he had been able to convince his lover to re-don the entirety of their pyjamas after their impromptu tryst.

      “Of course, my boy.  We are always happy to see you.”

Lestrade’s grumpy ‘speak for yourself, you tosser,’ was swatted away lightly with a flick to his nose and Mycroft did his best to sit up in bed without jostling his partner unduly.  Eventually, as if he had been deciding if the invitation was sincere, Arthur’s face peered around the door, followed by a hand that waved shyly at the pair in the bed.

      “Hi.”

      “Hello, Arthur.  Would you actually like to enter the room to continue chatting with Gregory and myself?”

      “Yes, that’s probably a good idea.”

Arthur tiptoeing in didn’t surprise Mycroft, but Sherlock storming in after him certainly did.

      “And Sherlock, as well.  We are doubly graced, Gregory.”      

Lestrade, realizing that trying to sleep through both Arthur and Sherlock in the room simply wasn’t possible, flailed for the bed controls and raised his and Mycroft’s head so their conversation would be a little easier.  When the pair was situated, Sherlock flung himself into a chair and Arthur dithered a little before Mycroft, acting on some very unfamiliar instinct, nudged Lestrade over as far as possible and patted the very edge of the bed, inviting Arthur to take a seat.  Which the steward did gladly.

      “What is troubling you, Arthur?  It is clear something weighty is on your mind.”

      “Well… I was having a bit of a think… and…”

Mycroft cut a surreptitious eye to his brother who simply shrugged.

      “Yes, do go on.”

      “Well… oh, I said well again.  That’s a little boring, isn’t it?  Anyway, I was having a little think and I checked with Mr. Sherlock and he said it was ok, so here I am.”

Lestrade slowly tugged his pillow from under his head and used it to cover his face, only to have Mycroft snatch it off and gently replace it behind his partner’s skull.

      “Gregory, do behave.  Arthur, I am afraid that statement lacked a bit in clarity.”

      “Yeah, it did go a tad curvy there, didn’t it.  Ok… I asked Mr. Sherlock if it was ok to change my mind about something and he said it was, as long as I didn’t break the law, which you should appreciate, Greg, so I did.”

      “And about what did you change your mind?”

      “Me and Skip.”

Mycroft’s heart clenched and Lestrade’s pretense at being sleepy and surly quickly evaporated as he struggled to reach out to lay a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.  It was only Mycroft’s gentle stopping of the motion and sitting up further to take the action himself that kept the Detective Inspector from hurting himself.

      “Arthur… what about you and Martin?  Have you… a ‘little think’ is not necessarily sufficient for any decision of appreciable magnitude.”

      “It _can_ be though, can’t it?  When you know… you absolutely, positively know that you’re making the right decision?  When it just clicks into your head and nothing in the world you do is ever going to make it pop out.  Well, unless you just get scared and don’t say anything, but you’ll still _think_ what you wanted to think, even if you don’t do anything about it.”

Unhappily, Mycroft knew exactly Arthur’s meaning.  That crystal-clear moment of truth when your mind brought all factors to focus on one, small, unwavering point and you knew, with perfect certainty, that your answer was at hand.

      “Yes, that I cannot deny.  And you are saying you have had such an epiphany?”

      “I’m going to say yes, I think so.  Did I get it right?”

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose and felt Lestrade run a calming hand along his back.

      “I believe you did.  And if you will now tell us what was the nature of your epiphany, we can discuss the issue further.  It involves you and Martin, correct?”

      “Yes!  It does.  I was having my little think and my little think thought about Skip and me and how I think I’ve made… well, I’ve made a bad decision.”

Mycroft tried not to let the sorrow show in his eyes, but looking at Sherlock and Lestrade, it seemed he wasn’t the only one not entirely succeeding in the task.

      “I see.  And, have you informed Martin of your decision?”

      “Not yet.  I wanted to make sure I was allowed to change my mind first before I actually told Skip.  It would only be fair, after all.”

      “That is… that is certainly the considerate action, yes.  Would you appreciate perhaps myself or Gregory being with you when you imparted the news?”

      “And why can’t I be the one to support Arthur during the dissolution of his engagement?”

Sherlock’s indignant tone was matched by the intensity of the glare he was shooting at his brother.

      “This is a highly delicate matter, Sherlock, and one fraught with the most intense and unpleasant of emotions.  Is that really something for which you feel you are suited?”

      “I am as certainly as suited as you.  I doubt Martin will even understand that his predicted future has been erased if you are there to coach Arthur on his speech.”

      “Why don’t both of you just take a step away and leave this to me and John.  We’re old hands at getting the boom lowered on a relationship and I know… well, I know what it means to have a _marriage_ fall apart on me.  We’re really better qualified to handle this than either of you.”

      “Which, my dear, would elevate your emotional state and, perhaps, render you a tad less effective than myself or… Sherlock, god help me… for evaluating the situation and responding rationally and calmly.”

      “Bollocks!”

      “I highly doubt they shall make an appearance in Arthur’s severing of his engagement, Lestrade.  And you have just verified the strength of Mycroft’s claim.”

Arthur watched the three men argue, moving his head back and forth, to and fro as if he was watching a tennis match played by a trio standing at three points of a very narrow triangle.

      “Ummm…. Mycroft?  Can I ask a question?”

      “Of course, Arthur.  I do apologize for taking the conversation out of your hands.  That was highly inappropriate of me.”

      “It’s ok, because I’m not exactly sure what you mean.  What I think I did understand, though… I don’t think I understood.”

      “Ah… yes… Arthur, our hearts are absolutely breaking over this announcement, and I cannot imagine the pain you are suffering from your decision…”

      “I wouldn’t call it pain, actually.  More… a bit anxious.”

      “Wha… well, however you might describe it.  And, now that I consider it more fully, you are likely suffering from some form of shock, which is numbing you to the…”

      “Why would I be in shock?  Does this mean I have to wear a blanket again?”

      “No… not as such…”

Mycroft tried to gain some form of insight from Sherlock and Lestrade, both of whom were more than content to let him take point in this mission.

      “We are simply… and by we, I mean Sherlock, Gregory and I… seeking the most effective way to support you in what will undoubtedly be a distressing conversation with Martin.”

      “Ummmmm… no, that didn’t really help.  Distress is a bit of a strong word, too, and I don’t think it’s going to be a strong conversation.  More of a ‘Oh Skip, you don’t mind if I change my mind and don’t want to wait to get married but get married really, really soon instead, do you?’ sort of conversation.  He might be a little miffed because Skip can get a little miffed when I wiggle and waggle about something, but I don’t think he’s going to be distressed.  If you think he’s going to be distressed though... oh no!  I’ve upset, Skip!”

Arthur started to bolt towards the door to apologize to the completely unsuspecting Skip, but was stopped by Mycroft’s quick reflexes and tight grip on Arthur’s pyjama shirt.

      “Arthur… are you telling us that you are _not_ breaking your engagement with Martin?”

The size of Arthur’s eyes and opened mouth would need a meter stick to measure and Mycroft was certain the poor boy had never been so pale in his life.

      “BREAK MY ENGAGEMENT!   Why would you say that?  What… Why would you even _think_ that?  Not marry Skip?  That’s… Mycroft, I know you’re the smartest man in the world, I’msorryMr.Sherlockbutwecantalkaboutthatlater, but right now I’m also wondering if you might be the silliest.  Not marry, Skip… I should make you wash out your mouth with soap for saying that, Mycroft, because it is very nearly almost bad as a swear.”

      “It _was_ as bad, Arthur.  Enact your punishment.”

      “Be quiet, Sherlock.  I… I apologize, Arthur GREGORY, DO STOP LAUGHING!... as I was saying, I apologize profusely for my misunderstanding of your situation.  A misunderstanding, I might point out, was shared by the laughing hyena at my side and the pot-stirring infant in the chair.  I promise never again to mention anything of that nature.  Now, to return to the salient feature of your speech… you have decided to move forward the date of your wedding?”

      “Yes!  I realized that… I want to be with Skip.  I want to have my brain slow down and be cozy and quiet in my head and I want breakfast and I want curling curls and all of that and I don’t want to wait and wait and wait when I don’t have to.  I only wanted to wait because I wanted Greg to be well, but… I also didn’t think about how well he’d be when he wasn’t even really well yet!  I mean, right now Greg is laughing and he can walk a little and watch films and eat breakfast with us, even if he’s in his wheelchair.  Greg’s not well, but he’s not not-well either, if that makes any sense.  I guess I thought he’d be very not well until he was actually well, but that’s not the case.  Understand?”

Lestrade was having a very difficult time stopping giggling and just tapped Mycroft on the shoulder and made a keep going signal.  For his part, Sherlock was feeling the pieces fall into place and it washed away the last vestiges of his concern over Arthur and Martin’s domestic affairs.  Mycroft’s mind was coming to very similar conclusions.

      “I believe I have caught the thread of your reasoning and I must commend you for reevaluating your situation when new information presented itself.  So, may I be the first to offer my congratulations on your impending nuptials?  When may we expect to attend the ceremony?”

      “Oh, I hadn’t really thought about an exact date.  Just… I just want a date not so far away from now as the one I had been thinking about.   Which I didn’t know exactly either, so it’s a bit of a puzzle.”

Mycroft tapped his bottom lip with his index finger and contemplated Arthur’s predicament, though it was Lestrade who jumped in to keep the conversation flowing.

      “I’d say, lad, to think about what sort of wedding you want.  I’m sure Mycroft can cut through any pesky waiting periods if you want to do this in a day or so, but that wouldn’t leave much time to plan anything special.  And your mum’s not back for a few days…”

      “I definitely don’t want anything in a day or so, even if Mycroft can do it or Doctor Sam sends Skip and me to Las Vegas so we can get married by Elvis.”

Mycroft’s quietly hissed ‘Does Sherrinford’s vulgarity know no bounds?’ earned him his own swat, though Lestrade couldn’t reach his partner’s nose and had to settle for pinching Mycroft’s bum, instead.

      “I’d like something nice with lots of flowers and there’s my chocolates and Skip and I will need our wedding outfits, Mum needs a dress and then there’s the cake and I have to pick out all the music…”

      “Arthur…”

Arthur paused adding to his wedding-planning list and looked over to Sherlock, who was studiously ignoring Mycroft and Lestrade’s attempts to deduce the reason for his interruption.

      “Yes, Mr. Sherlock?”

      “What is your favorite number?”

      “My… oh, well, I’ll have to think about that.  I like all the numbers really, they all mean something very interesting, many something interestings, actually.  And different somethings in different countries!”

      “Pick one.”

      “Ooh… I’ve gone a bit nervous now.  What if I pick the wrong one?”

      “You can’t, since the only person who knows what is your favorite number is you.  Consider it a game.  One you are ensured of winning.”

      “Hurray!”

      “You haven’t won yet.”

      “Right...  Ok… my favorite number… I’d guess… I’ll have to say… five.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “Yes, I am going to say I am.  I have five fingers on my hands and five toes on my feet and that’s just brilliant, isn’t it?  And I’ve five things on my face if I count my nostrils as two separate things and don’t count my ears, which are on my head but can’t, technically, be counted as on my face.  I’ve got five people in my London family  - you, Doctor Watson, Mycroft, Greg and Doctor Sam – and five people in my Fitton family – Skip, Douglas, Mum, Herc and Snoopadoop – even though Snoopadoop isn’t actually a person, but she’s still family.  There are five letters in GERTI and I have five new songs on my phone I haven’t listened to yet…  there’s so _many_ wonderful fives that I have to say five is my favorite number.”

      “Very well.  Your wedding will be in five weeks, give or take a day depending on scheduling issues with the venue of your choice.”

Arthur stared at Sherlock and a high-pitched squeak built in his throat until it came out in a nearly ear-piercing blast of joy.

      “I’m getting married in five weeks!  That’s perfect!  All the things I have to do I _can_ do, but it’s still very, very soon so by the time everything that has to be done is done… WEDDING!”

Arthur jumped up and launched into a highly-spirited dance, with Sherlock looking on smugly.  For once, Mycroft decided his brother’s self-satisfaction was entirely justified.  Turning to look at his lover, Mycroft shared a smile that offered the promise of a night completely lacking further sleep as they began planning the jubilant event.  Lestrade’s smile offered further a promise that nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, would keep him from dancing at Martin and Arthur’s wedding.

      “I’ve got to tell Skip!  Thanks you, Mr. Sherlock.  And thank you, too, Mycroft and Greg.  We’ll plan your wedding next, don’t worry about a thing.”

Arthur ran out the room, forgetting even to tiptoe and left behind Mycroft and Lestrade suddenly hesitant to meet each other’s eye.

      “It is not possible for me to have less interest in either of you and your ridiculous schoolboy awkwardness.  I am going to wake John if he has not already been wakened by the eruption of Arthur’s news.  I doubt even the thickness of your walls, Mycroft, will be able to contain the shockwave.”

Sherlock shook his head and tut-tutted as he left the room, while Mycroft wondered how his brother would fare with all of his bank cards suddenly rendered non-functional.

      “Are you ready for this, love?”

      “I… I had not given it any thought.  No, I shall not dishonor you with a lie.  I have given this a great deal of thought and believe I know my mind on the subject.  However, I have been hesitant to broach the topic, knowing you have more pressing matters on your mind than any, shall we say, formalizing our domestic relationship.”

That his Gregory was looking at him as if he were speaking the language of the natives of the planet Jupiter did not give Mycroft hope that his potential, though tentative, statement of intentions would be met with favor.

      “Mycroft, what are you talking about?  I asked you if you were ready for the great wedding and all the planning it’s going to need.  What did you think I was asking?”

Ah.  Well, if this wasn’t the proverbial fine kettle of fish.  And his Gregory looked to be within seconds of jumping clear of that particular kettle.

      “Oh.  Oh oh oh oh oh… you don’t have to say anything, Mycroft.  Your face is saying it all.  But… if you _want_ to say something, I’m… I’m, ummm… I’m willing to listen.”

      “You are?”

      “Yeah, I guess I am.  There’s nothing wrong with talking about something, is there?  It’s just talking, after all.”

      “Agreed.  Discourse is a fine thing and the outlay of the participants is naught but breath.”

      “So… you want to start discoursing?”

      “Me?”

      “You _did_ start this landslide.”

Fairness was a bitter, bitter pill to swallow.

      “Incontrovertible.  I… my, has it suddenly become hot in here?”

      “I was thinking the same thing, but that’s not really relevant, so go on and stop stalling.”

      “I am not known for procrastination, Gregory.”

      “You’re getting there.  Look, we don’t need to do this…”

But they did.  As Arthur had achieved his nirvana, Mycroft achieved his from the flash of true disappointment that flittered across his partner’s face.  Disappointment that their conversation might wither and die…

      “Yes, we do.  You know my love for you, Gregory.  Know that it is deep and pure and undying.  And, from your words and actions, I have no doubt, not a scintilla, that your love for me can be described in any lesser terms.  I never believed that I would find someone who would take my incomplete and half-formed life and, by their presence, send that empty existence to a peaceful grave.  With you, there is no lack, no thirst, no deprivation, nothing undone or suffering neglect.  With you, and only you, am I whole and see myself as a man who has worth as a _person_ , and not simply a tool or a blade.  I would have that for my lifetime, Gregory and offer whatever I can… whatever I have and all that I am… to you in return.  I would have you at my side for the rest of my d…days.  I do not deserve you or your love, but I treasure it beyond anything in any vault in any bank in this world because you are the most honorable, caring, dedicated, devoted… you are an exemplar of our human species and I feel so b…blessed that some moments in the dead of night I am certain the glow of my contentment shall rouse you from s…slumber.  I… Gregory, you are to me… you are my world, Gregory.  I would, if you will permit me… I would ask you, with all proper solemnity… I had thought it prudent to wait, perhaps until…”

      “Mycroft?”

Lestrade reached over and wiped the slight trace of moisture off of his partner’s cheek, smiling what he hoped was an encouraging smile that would break through the wall of Mycroft’s internal collapse.

      “Yes?”

      “Will you marry me?”

The number of surprises in Mycroft’s life were, mercifully, few, but this one, entirely predictable in hindsight, completely took his legs out from under him and he stared dumbly at Lestrade until the Detective Inspector turned his gentle caress into a slightly stinging slap on Mycroft’s cheek.

      “Gregory… are you entirely certain of that question.”

      “I wouldn’t have asked it if I wasn’t.  But, I’ll ask it again, if it helps.  Mycroft Holmes, at some point that won’t interfere with the wedding we’re currently staring down like an oncoming, overloaded lorry, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

Some situations confounded you with eternal fog through which you hacked away bit by bit until you finally found the hazy outline of a solution.  Some you slithered through as if you were a snake making its way through an oiled maze, catching as many mice as evaded capture by sliding away from your fangs.  Others had you dance through a field of live wires until the resolution hit you like a thunderbolt and left you as energized as you were shattered.  This… this was certainly an example of the latter.  And his answer was already on the tip of his tongue.

      “Yes.  I would be delighted to take your hand and give you mine in return.  I shall gladly marry you, Gregory Lestrade, and I feel incalculably privileged to be… to be _allowed_ this privilege, knowing well the sad and flawed man you are receiving by extending your offer.”

Lestrade drew Mycroft back to lie against the bed and smiled at the strong trembling running through the unflappable bureaucrat’s body.

      “I love you, Mycroft.  This might be sooner than I expected to have this talk, but I don’t regret a word of it.  I love you, I want the life with you I’ve dreamed about and I will be proud, insanely proud, to call you my husband.  Now, how about a little kiss for your poor, lonely fiancé?”

 Mycroft got stuck again in his mind, hearing the word fiancé, and Lestrade had to pull him over to cement their pact with a touch of their lips.

      “But, that might be something we keep to ourselves for awhile, at least until Arthur and Martin’s wedding is over.  I don’t want to steal any of their attention with our own good news.”

That helped kick Mycroft’s mind into working and he, again, marveled at his Gregory’s abilities in the field of human relations.

      “I concur.  It is a very wise idea and… it shall be our secret for only a _brief_ period of time, really.”

For the stony coldness of his demeanor at times, Lestrade loved best those moments when his lover nearly vibrated with a contained eagerness for something new, or special or meaningful to him.

      “Only a little while.  I’ll even let you decide when to tell everyone and how.  Does that earn me another kiss?”

It would earn him a lifetime’s worth and Mycroft planned to pay the debt in full.

      “Absolutely, though I daresay a kiss shall not be the stopping point of our celebration.  Shall I… lock the door?”

      “Can I use my mouth for something other than kissing?”

      “Perhaps this one time, I might find myself more brash and willing to take risks.”

      “Then locking the door it is.  And we better get started because I want to take my time and I have a feeling it’s going to be an early morning for everyone.”

And, with another kiss, Mycroft swung his legs out of the bed and sauntered to the door with as saucy a stride as his own beloved could muster when he was being particularly cocky.  It was his right, that much was certain.  He had just received the greatest gift of his life and that gift was had talents he suspected he had only just begun to explore…  


	13. Chapter 13

      “SKIP!!!!!!!!”

The only thing that kept Martin from falling on the floor when he launched from the bed like a rocket heading to the moon was colliding with Arthur who had decided bending over to blare his greeting was a very smart thing to do.

      “Arthur!  What in the… you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

      “No!  You can’t have a heart attack!  We’re getting married!”

      “Yes, well I’ve got time to heal then.  Aren’t I lucky.”

      “But not much time, Skip.  WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!”

      “I think my cardiac event will heal before Greg’s disaster of a… disaster repairs itself.”

      “NO!  We don’t have that much time!  WEDDING!!!!!!”

It suddenly hit Martin that Arthur just might have something in the form of information that he currently lacked.  Hence, the near-lethal disturbance of his sleep.

      “Arthur… why are you awake and out of bed?”

      “Oh, well I had to talk to Mr. Sherlock, now didn’t I?  And then Mycroft and Greg, or it wouldn’t have been fair to you and you know how I feel about being fair, Skip.  I’m very much for it.”

      “That you are.  Is it possible to tell me what it is you had to be fair to me about?”

      “Yes, it is now.”

      “Ok.”

      “Right.”

      “Arthur?”

      “Skip?”

      “Are you going to tell me or is there some form of password I have to say, which I have to guess first from a series of clues you hid in your origami Noah’s ark collection or a game of Charades?”

      “No, but wouldn’t that be brilliant!”

      “ARTHUR!”

      “Yes!  Ok… well, it’s like this… are you ready?”

      “I’m so ready I could burst.”

      “Good.  Or not, because that would be rather icky and we have enough of that right now with Doctor Sam, but don’t tell him I said he was icky.”

      “Arthur, for god sake...”

      “WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!”

      “Yes, I know that, but what is it you have to _tell_ me?”

      “That _is_ what I have to tell you.”

      “Wonderful.  Thank you for waking me up to tell me something I already knew, though I admit it’s a lovely fact that I don’t mind hearing repeated now and then.  Now, if you don’t mind…”

      “Skip, I think you’re not understanding what I’m saying.”

      “I don’t think there’s any easy way to misinterpret the fact that we’re getting married.  The fact that I asked you and you said yes is one very substantial clue, in fact.  As substantial as the bracelet that’s doing a very good job building muscle on my arm every time I have to lift it.”

      “Oh…. I see your point.  Then what you’re missing is the rest of it.”

      “What rest of it.”

      “That we’re getting married in five weeks.  Though, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I told you about you that yet.  Did I?”

      “No!  You most certainly did not!  Arthur… five weeks!  But… you said Greg…”

      “I know!  That’s why I had to talk to Mr. Sherlock and Mycroft and Greg to make sure it was alright to change my mind after I already decided to wait until Greg was fully well.  Right now he’s not fully well, but he acts like he almost is and even if he has to be in his wheelchair or move around very slowly and take little breaks, he’ll be able to come to the wedding and laugh and sing and have a brilliant time and it’ll be _Greg_ at the wedding.  It really will be Greg and that’s… well, that’s actually what I wanted most, I guess, and I don’t have to wait for his holes to completely heal or him to be able to dance with Mycroft.”

Martin laid back down and stared at the ceiling, that was only partially blocked by Arthur’s beaming smile.  Five weeks.  One month and one week.  Thirty five days.  And in that time he had to find a way to pay for a suit, wedding rings, an entire wedding that was likely going to be an elaborate one if he knew his fiancé and he did, find a place for them to live, find a way to _pay_ for a place for them to live… oh god, why was his chest getting tight… oh yes, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, CAN’T BREATHE…

      “SKIP!  Oh, hold on, I’ll get Doctor Watson!”

Arthur raced out the door and barged into Sherlock and John’s room, holding a hand over his eyes in case they were doing something that boyfriends and fiancés and husbands were supposed to do but other people weren’t supposed to see and yelled for John to follow.  Both John and Sherlock ran after him and leapt into action seeing Martin in the middle of a panic-induced episode.  By the time they had him calmed down, the rest of the household, minus Lestrade had joined them, much to Martin’s embarrassment, though he had to admit that not even Douglas seemed ready to comment evilly on his attack.

      “Skip, what happened?  The only time you’ve done that was when you were a bit upset with… oh, Skip, were you upset with me?  Do you… you don’t think this is good news, do you?  I’m sorry, Skip.  I thought you’d be happy.”

The sadness on Arthur’s face cut through Martin’s bleak thoughts and his mind fought to pull itself together to drag that sorrow as far away from his fiancé as he could.

      “That’s not it, Arthur.  I… I think this is very good news, I really do.  It’s just… five weeks!  Do you know how much there is to do in those five weeks and what it’s going to take to get it all done?  What it’s going to cost?  I haven’t even had a chance to _start_ saving for…

      “Funding your nuptials is not your concern, Martin.  That is a duty that family is privileged to perform.  Put such thoughts out of your mind.”

      “That’s not how it works, Mycroft.”

      “That is exactly how it works, kid, unless you don’t have family to step up.  You listen to Skinny, he’s not completely wrong about everything, you know.”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford, for that rousing endorsement.  Now, please take your rotting corpse away from the living so we are not required to wear plague masks and carry posies in front of our noses.”

      “The formaldehyde in your blood will protect you, you pickled snake.  Didn’t I see you once in a jar at a carnival outside of Santa Fe?”

Mycroft glared at Sam who glared back and Douglas decided it was up to him to be the adult in the room.

      “Martin, one of the joys of a wedding is that you are able to enjoy the grandest party of your life on someone else’s bank account.  And, though we would have to engage in an extremely uncomfortable discussion about which of you qualifies as the bride and which as the groom to satisfy tradition, the details of the planning will likely fall to Arthur who, though not precisely a woman would look far more fetching in a taffeta gown than would you.”

      “Thanks, Douglas!”

      “That wasn’t a… oh forget it.  Arthur, my love, are you certain you want this to happen so quickly?  I know you want something special and…”

      “Arthur will get whatever he wants for his wedding.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock, however…”

      “John will help him prepare if it becomes necessary.”

      “Hurray!”

      “Stop volunteering me for things!”

      “Pipe down, peewee.  Baby bro is just trying to be helpful.  I mean… do you really want to think of what would happen if Softcock got his hands on the festivities?  Artie and Marty would be married in a morgue and Dr. Moreau would be calling for the I Do’s.”

      “Though Sherry paints an elaborately-grotesque scenario, I believe he is not so far from the truth that establishing a non-Dupin zone around the ceremony portfolio should be considered a wise decision.”

As the battle raged, with everyone in the room alternately being added to and deleted from the wedding planning team, Lestrade included, and Martin simply sat on the bed and held his head in his hands, wondering if he snuck out and started running, would he even make it as far as the end of the street before Mycroft’s men dragged him back into the fire.

      “Skip?”

      “Don’t mind me, Arthur.  I can’t even wear taffeta.”

      “Skip, if you need a little rest before we talk about the wedding, we can take Mr. Sherlock’s room because he and Doctor Watson aren’t using it right now.”

      “No, it’s alright, love.  I’m just… overwhelmed.  We’re going to back in the air soon and I haven’t been working with my van… how am I going to get anything together…”

      “Good lord, Martin, are you still whinging about money?”

      “Yes, Douglas, I am.  People who don’t have any tend to whinge about it quite regularly.”

      “At this juncture, Sir, we have established the funding base for your wedding and the rather spectacular soiree to follow, what else can you possibly find to complain about?”

      “Oh, let me see.  Let’s start small… rings.  I… I want to be the one to get our wedding rings because Arthur did so much, did everything, for these bracelets.  He put his heart and soul into them and I want to do that for him, albeit without the power of Mycroft’s bankcard behind me.  Do you know what it’s going to take for me to save for even two _thin_ gold bands?”

      “Then don’t get gold.  Nobody says you have to get gold, Martin.  Silver’s dirt cheap and you can get something really nice if you…”

      “Heavens, Sherrinford… have you not even a modicum of taste or sense of symbolism?  Silver?  Which tarnishes, hence it’s complete inappropriateness for a symbol of eternal and unblemished love and devotion?”

      “Heavens, Mycroft… have you not even a smidgen of observational skill?  When you wear silver all the time it doesn’t tarnish.  I wore a silver ring for years and never saw a speck of tarnish on it.”

      “Abominable.  Let me guess, some vulgar representation of a skull or a stylized marijuana leaf.”

      “Actually, it was a braided pattern that Laura picked out.  Some people _don’t_ have money, Mr. Rockefeller and do what they have to.  I barely had a pot to piss in when I asked my wife to marry me and she happily did without an engagement ring because we’d rather save the cash for silly things like rent and food.  And, when we looked for wedding rings, we prowled through every store and went to a couple of those arts and crafts fairs until she found the perfect ones.  Sterling silver that I wore for ten years as a symbol of eternal and unblemished love and devotion.  Me and you, Martin.  We’re going shopping.”

An idea which Martin, surprisingly, didn’t hate.  Actually, it made him feel a lot better to know that there _was_ an option to find something respectable for his Arthur that wouldn’t require him selling his van to raise the money.  That the option was making Mycroft fidget uncomfortably was simply a bonus.

      “I’d like that.  Arthur… would that be alright with you?”

      “Alright?  It would be brilliant!  WEDDING RINGS!  And I know you’ll find something that will be positively perfect because you know what I would think is brilliant and what you think is brilliant so you’ll pick the brilliantest of brilliant rings for us and AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

      “Ok, Arthur’s happy, so we’ll have ourselves a shopping spree and let you strut your stuff.”

But, Sam thought, there _were_ things he wasn’t maybe the best choice to spearhead…

      “And Skinny over there will make sure you two get the nicest wedding suits known to man.  That’s a lot more his area than mine.”

A declaration that made Mycroft nearly jerk with shock, but he took the gesture for what it was – a peace offering.

      “Indeed I shall.  And I assure you that something very appropriate may be had with the budget under which you are working.”

      “And I shall be more than willing to assist you with crafting the menu for your wedding banquet, Sir.  Whereas your personal gold depository may sign the actual check, I shall ensure that what you serve your guests will be a feast they shall not soon forget.  And yes, Arthur, your input shall, of course, be given due consideration during the decision-making process.”

And by due consideration, Douglas meant listened to with grave seriousness, then promptly forgotten, lest the hors d’oeurves be some variation of oysters with jelly baby sauce and broiled leeks with kimchi and kumquats.

      “That’s great!  Skip, did you hear that?  Douglas is going to help with the food and you know how much he loves food!  Douglas eats more food than anyone I know!  He must have eaten everything in the world, so he’ll have lots of ideas!”

And Martin was so delighted to see Douglas purse his lips in disapproval of Arthur’s choice of words, he didn’t even feel the need to try and add to the First Officer’s irritation.

      “Stop!”

Sherlock’s outburst shook the walls as loudly as Martin’s shriek when Arthur woke him up and drew all eyes to the detective.

      “John needs a job to do.”

And by John, the older men had no doubt Sherlock meant himself.

      “Well, brother dear, our Doctor Watson delighted in the flowers you presented him to inaugurate your relationship, I am certain he would rejoice at the chance to coordinate the floral component of the event.  And, dare I add, escort Martin and Arthur for the very necessary evaluation of samples to choose the most appropriate cake.  And please do not say that is a job best suited for me; that particular witticism has grown as cold as long-abandoned tea.”

      “That is within John’s abilities.”

      “Good, then we shall consider the matter settled.  And I am quite certain Mrs. Knapp-Shappey shall add her sword to the fight, so all of the relevant areas of preparation shall be managed and you, Martin, shall not have to worry about matters spiraling out of your grasp from either a temporal or financial standpoint.”

Martin looked at Mycroft and tried to muster up some wrath at the way by which matters had not only been managed but appropriated by everyone in the room, but couldn’t.  If Arthur wanted their wedding in five weeks, they’d need help unless he let Mycroft wave his magic wand, which would absolutely not happen.  That his cousin had allowed others to step in and add their spoons to the pot was actually difficult to believe.  Almost as difficult as Douglas allowing someone to lean on him so this someone didn’t fall on his arse because he was stupid and shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone standing up and arguing with Mycroft.

      “Thank you, all of you.  That’s very helpful and that should give me more time to focus on finding Arthur and I a place to live, which…”

      “Skip, there’s really not a hurry for that since we can live in my house or your attic until we find the perfect place…”

      “Arthur wasn’t sure exactly who was saying “No!” to what, but everyone seemed to be saying no about something except him.

      “I think I’ve gotten fuddled.”

Martin opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock jumped in ahead of him.

      “Martin’s domicile is an affront to term.  It has no positive attributes and a list of negative ones which exceeds that for Mycroft’s personality.  You may not choose that as a residence option.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock, for insulting me and Mycroft in one sentence.”

      “I required two sentences, Martin.  Already, living in that abandoned hermit-crab shell has damaged your ability to process verbal language.”

      “Dougie, is Martin’s apartment really the rat trap Sherlock says it is?”

      “Well, Sherry, imagine a cozy and homey one-room flat with all the amenities one could wish for.  It is precisely the opposite of that.”

      “Arthur, you’re not living in the rat trap.”

      “Doctor Sam!  Skip’s flat doesn’t have rats and I would know because I would have already tried to train one as a pet so Skip didn’t have to be lonely when I wasn’t visiting him and  I most certainly have _not_ spent any time training a rat pet recently.”

The ‘recently’ actually troubled Sam, but he decided some rats were better left unexplored.

      “And my flat isn’t that bad.  I… I admit it’s not where I want Arthur living, but that’s why I’m going to try and find something for us before the wedding.”

      “Martin, if I might suggest… the house you and Sherrinford were inhabiting is rented for quite some months yet and could easily serve as a temporary residence to extend the, shall we call it, flat-hunting period.  To find a suitable location and prepare the finances will likely require an amount of time that exceeds your allotment, unless you will permit me to…”

      ‘No, Mycroft, I will not.”

      “But Skip, Mycroft _does_ have a good idea about the little house.  If we can live there and have a few more months to find something for us that we can afford… I’ll have to find another job anyway so we can afford anything and that’s not going to be easy since we’ll be flying again soon and… I don’t really know how to do anything else.”

      “That’s not true, kid.  You can do a lot of things, more than most people if you get right down to it, but that still doesn’t mean finding a job is easy.  Listen to them, Martin.  Skinny’s already paid for the place and having it sit empty or having you sit in it isn’t going to change that.  And, I bet if you ask nicely, he can get the utilities put in your name, so you’ll actually pay for the stuff you do use.  If it buys you a month or two extra to get settled into something of your own, then you’d be nuts not to take it.”

Martin glared at Sam because he knew there was a trick in there somewhere, he just couldn’t find it.

      “I’m not trying to trick you, Martin.  You and Arthur take the rental house, that’s provided you’re not saving yourselves for the wedding, and that’ll give you peace of mind for a few months while you get your permanent living arrangements sorted out.  And, let’s face it, you’ve got the communications room for mission control set and ready to go and you know the fridge door needs a little extra push to close it completely.  Just do it and make that one less worry on your plate.”

Damn the Holmeses!  Couldn’t a man actually have a private thought?  Martin looked at Arthur who was beaming his most hopeful smile and realized if he said yes, they could go back to Fitton and… be together.  Carolyn might not be happy about it, or maybe she would, it was hard to know what Carolyn would think about anything, but he and Arthur could start on their lives together and it would be a tremendous aid to have additional time to try and find some way to earn money for the rent bump he’d have to bear.  No matter what anyone said about his flat, it was affordable, when most places, even in Fitton, weren’t.  And Arthur… Arthur _would_ likely have to get a second job, as best as anyone with their schedule could and it would take time to find something that could work with Arthur’s hours and… Arthurness.

      “Truly, Martin, I don’t see any point of argument to ruffle your feathers, especially if your cousin there cedes the household bills to you and your pocketbook.  And, with a villa as palatial your and Arthur’s new home, you might even receive visitors other than rats.  For instance, it might even welcome _me_ from time to time, now that I don’t have to worry about your penury infecting my humors.”

      “See, Skip!  Douglas will visit us!  And Mum and Herc!  And Mycroft can get a helicopter and bring everyone from London over for a nice dinner. We’ll clear a path for Greg’s wheelchair and it will all work brilliantly!  Please, Skip… please, please, please, please, please…”

Martin sighed heavily and focused on Mycroft who was trying and failing completely to hide his triumphant smirk.

      “You _will_ let me pay for everything except the rent, since that’s already paid for, though… I suppose I could just pay you the rent and…”

      “Martin, kindly do not protract this negotiation.  You will be given full responsibility for everything that is not covered by the current rental agreement and consider yourself master of the house.  Or co-master in this case.”

And the house would receive a few upgrades over the next day or two to maximize energy efficiency and water usage so his cousin’s masterhood was bought cheaply.

      “Fine.  I’ll stay in the house until Arthur and I find something that works for us.”

      “Hurray!  And I can stay, too.”

      “Carolyn might have something to say about that, love.”

      “That’s true, but, as some people seem to forget, I’m not a little kid and can actually move in with someone if I want to without Mum’s permission.  But I’m going to ask anyway because it’s polite.”

The older generation shared a round of ‘well done chaps’ in various forms, with Sherlock dragging John out of the room with a ‘finally, we are done with this tedium’ instead of staying to celebrate the victory.

      “When you return to Fitton, Martin, all arrangements will have been concluded, so you may consider the matter settled.  And, at any time, if you require assistance with your future relocation plans, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Mycroft started to leave the room, then stopped, tapped his brother on the shoulder and nodded for him to follow, which Sam did with a notable lack of obscene hand signals or rude noises.

      “Well, Sir, you and Arthur preparing to live in sin…. or as much sin as young Arthur is capable.  I am not entirely appalled by the idea.”

      “Thanks, Douglas!  Skip and I are going to have a brilliant time and then WEDDING! and then we’ll get to keep having a brilliant time, but we’ll be married while we’re doing it.”

      “Which is not always guaranteed when one is conjugally bonded, so aren’t you a lucky pair of ganders.  Now, if you will excuse me, I believe there is a very expensive bed beckoning me and the morning I unhappily expect shall arrive early and with the fanfare of an elephant parade.”

Before Arthur could launch into a discussion about elephants, Douglas beat a hasty, yet dignified retreat, leaving the engaged couple alone in the room.

      “Five weeks, Arthur… what prompted you to change your mind?”

      “You did.  I realized that I wanted to be with you and it was a little silly to wait since the reason for waiting wasn’t as much of a reason as I had expected.  Greg’s already doing well and in five weeks he’ll even be better.  So why wait to be husbands when we can go ahead and be husbands?”

      “That makes sense but… five weeks.  We’re going to be busy.”

      “But we have help!  And that’s the way it’s supposed to be, too.  You get married and everyone in the family helps make it a wonderful day and our family is the most wonderful one in the world, so we’re going to have a brilliant wedding.  And even if it was just me and you and someone to marry us, that would be alright, too.  As long as I get to marry you, Skip, that’s the only thing that really matters.”

Martin grinned and lay back on the bed.

      “And your chocolates?”

      “Well yes, I suppose they matter, too.  They really are delicious chocolates.”

      “And we’ll get all that you want.  Weddings _are_ a family affair, if I’m honest about it and families pay for them, so I can’t get too upset that Mycroft’s already warming up his chequebook in preparation.  He’d do the same for Sherlock and John, I guess, even though Sherlock would fight him harder than I could possibly fight.  So we’ll have our family-funded wedding and… we’ll be married.  And you’re right – that’s the only thing that matters.”

Arthur leapt onto the bed and onto Martin and began smothering him with kisses that the pilot accepted gladly.  In a few days this could actually be their normal life.  Not their holiday life, but their normal life.  Provided Carolyn didn’t run a lance through his intestines when she heard the news…

__________

Mycroft said nothing as he walked towards Sam’s bedroom, as he _slowly_ walked, to give his brother the illusion of walking with him and not several kilometers behind him.  Stupid man… he had no business leaving his bed when he was in the condition John described.  And the pallor on Sherrinford’s face could not tell a more worrying tale.  How in creation had he been blessed with two brothers possessed of incalculable stupidity?  If he was ever in the position of speaking directly to whatever forces directed the course of the universe, should they exist, he would have very stern words for the being in charge.

Glaring at his older brother and snorting as his glare was met by a now-familiar rude gesture, Mycroft waited for Sam to return to bed and felt a sharp pang of something witnessing just how painful and difficult was the process.

      “Well, that’s good news for a change.  Those two are going to make a very happy married couple.  Just like you and Greg.  Which one of you actually popped the question?  I’m betting Greggy-boy did, but you’ve surprised me a time or two lately, so I could be wrong.  Love was in the air, huh?  Good enough reason to decide to get hitched…”

The middle Holmes suffered the very rare occurrence of having his mind come to a crashing halt, because, seeing Sam’s widening grin, he knew his brother had full faith in his deduction.

      “I… I have no idea to what you are referring.”

      “So it _was_ Greg!  I owe myself cash money for that one.  I can’t tell you how happy I am for you little brother, I really can’t.  Part of me expected you to try the live together forever route, which would have pissed Greg off after awhile and made me have to step in and sort things out.  It would have been a shame to have you all bruised and missing teeth in your wedding pictures, but shit happens.  And you… you did the right thing.  As solid a married couple as Martin and Arthur are going to be, you and Greg are going to be right up there with them.  I’m thrilled for you, Mycie… I am genuinely, positively thrilled for you.  You’re going to love married life; there’s nothing else like it in the world.  And you’re going to be good at it, too.”

How his brother had formed his conclusion was not something Mycroft wanted to know, however, Sherrinford’s endorsement of his suitability for marriage was an unexpected source of relief.  He loved Gregory, however, his history for being healthy for his beloved was a shameful one.  If Sherrinford believed he would be a successful husband for his Gregory… there was reason to be confident it _would_ be so.  He had little doubt that if it were otherwise, Sherrinford would not hesitate to inform him.  In copious and penetrating detail.

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  That is kind of you to say.”

      “Just being honest.  I’m guessing you’re going to keep it under wraps until after _this_ hoedown, right?”

      “Gregory and I believe it is best that we do not announce our intentions until after Arthur and Martin’s wedding, yes.”

      “Smart move.  Let the kids have their day in the sun and then you old farts can have yours, though I have a feeling you’re going to go for slightly-less of a Mardi Gras theme than the flyboys are going to have.  You’ll… you’ll have to  send me a picture or two.”

      “You speak as if you would not be in attendance.”

      “I’m not presuming, Mycroft.  I’m not going to presume or assume anything.  It’s fairest for both of us.”

And Mycroft couldn’t deny that was true.  He was still not certain how to integrate his brother into his life and to what degree would be that integration when the balance point was reached, so a lack of assumption on both their parts was the most sensible approach.  However… he would be quite the villain to exclude a close relative from an event of the magnitude of a wedding, no matter how fervently he might worry that said family member would romantically violate any and all females present and deplete the alcohol supply before the ceremony even began.

      “Understandable, however, I am hereby informing you that when it comes time to issue invitations, you shall receive one.  I shall simply need the address to affix to the envelope.”

And no mention would be made of the flash of excitement that lit in his brother’s eyes like fireworks.  Small gestures, John had said… and nothing said he actually had to interact with his brother during his own nuptial celebration any more than he must at Arthur and Martin’s.  A nod to acknowledge attendance would be sufficient and result in far fewer broken chairs and table decorations.

      “Well, I should have that for you in a few days.  Douglas and I are going to look through the listings tomorrow and I’ll line up a few possibles.  I’m not picky so I can probably find something fast.  Of course, Arthur wants me to find a little slice of the fairy kingdom so he can frolic when he comes for a visit, but I think I can leave that to you and your mansion.”

      “You have, then, decided to stay in London.”

      “For now.  Things could change in the future, but I’ve got a job that’s not bad, I know a few people… I’ll find an apartment and see how things go.”

      “You will, of course, remain here until you are fit enough to actually manage a new residence.”

      “I will, of course, get the hell out of your hair as soon as possible so your circus has one less monkey.”

      “Sherrinford…”

      “You’ve got enough on your plate, Skinny.  As much as John probably wept and wrung his hands, I’m not as bad off as people think.  I’m guessing he’s got you on the trail of some antibiotics that will kill everything in their path and after a course of those, I’ll be right as rain.”

      “Will you, at least, agree to allow John to be the arbiter of this decision?”

      “John can’t tell me anything I already don’t know about myself.”

      “Knowledge and its interpretation are two very different things.”

      “Ok, that’s true, but I’m the pharaoh of interpretation.  I would have said king, but that gets overused, so time to toss a new title into the ring.”

      “And your interpretation should be based on an unbiased, objective analysis of the facts, which you cannot possibly claim is the case in this situation.”

      “What is it with you guys?  I’ve been trying to get my ass out of here forever and you people keep pulling me back in.  For your information, I’m not Michael Corleone.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Ok, that’s not good.  You are severely jeopardizing your man card.  I’ve got to have a talk with Greg about your guy status and what he has to do to improve it.”

      “Gregory would argue my masculinity is most certainly not in question.”

      “He’ll rethink that when he finds out you haven’t seen the Godfather films.  Suddenly his mental image is going to be you as a little pig-tailed girl with a jump rope and Girl Scout cookies to sell.”

      “Ah, a film reference.  I shall ask Arthur…”

      “NO!  Do not mention anything about _The Godfather_ to Arthur.  Not even crappy part three.  He’ll want to see it and that is not a road you want to go down.”

      “But…”

      “Horse’s head in a bed.  Really, do I need to say more?”

      “No.  Point taken.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll make you a list of obligatory movies you need on your record.  And I promise that none will have a rating with more than one X.”

      “Lovely, my fire can always benefit from additional kindling.”

      “Come on, Mycroft… won’t Greg be impressed when you can toss out an Animal House or Blues Brothers line?  Yes, yes he will.  He’ll think you’re hot shit and you know where that’s going to lead.”

Very enjoyable places.  His Gregory did love tiny surprises…

      “If I have opportunity, perhaps I could improve my knowledge of popular culture.  For Gregory’s benefit, of course.”

And that knowledge base could easily expand through the focused examination of carefully-prepared study materials.

      “You lil’ bastard!  You’re going to have one of your people pull together a file for you to memorize!  Lazy, Mycroft… very, very lazy…”

      “I counter with efficient.”

      “I counter-counter with super-duper party-pooper lazy.”

      “My time is extremely limited.”

      “Your time is extremely lazy.”

      “Time cannot be described by that particular adjective.”

      “I was too lazy to think of anything else.”

Mycroft snorted loudly and waved dismissively at Sam, who laughed and drew a +1 in the air after pointing to himself.

      “Go to sleep, Sherry.  Perhaps you will be less insufferable in the morning.”

      “And we can probably put the likelihood of that about 0.0 %, but it’s always a good philosophy to think positively.  Helps the colon.”

Mycroft simply turned and left the bedroom, realizing a few steps outside that  he forgot his original mission of confronting his brother on his lack of attention to his health.  It had seemed the opportune time to broach the subject, painful though it would be, but he had fallen victim to his brother’s chaos and was now leaving empty-handed.  No… no that was not true.  He had participated in a mostly congenial conversation with Sherrinford and extended his own olive branch… twig… as per John’s suggestion.  It was enough for the moment.  There was more than sufficient time to delve into his brother’s frightening psyche now that the frightening psyche was going to make its home on his proverbial doorstep…

__________

Lestrade woke before Mycroft, but, then, he usually did.  Right now he couldn’t sleep for very long and night was typically a series of naps punctuated by bouts of begging his brain to let him go back to sleep.  Sometimes it was a nightmare that woke him up… a painful, draining, brain-stabbing nightmare.  Luckily, he wasn’t the type to move a lot when he had a nightmare, and couldn’t right now anyway,  so Mycroft wasn’t disturbed, but a pitiful and needy part of him wanted to wake his partner, if only to hear his voice saying something… something that would erase what the nightmare version of Mycroft had sneered at him in his sleep.  Or use his magic Mycroft powers and wave a hand to make bullets change their course and hit a tree instead of his chest.

Sometimes it was a feeling that something was wrong.  He couldn’t say what, but something just didn’t feel right and he’d lay there trying to pinpoint the problem and decide if it was worth getting John or Sam to help him look for the source of the trouble.  Which didn’t exist, he’d come to realize, but that didn’t change the fact that it _felt_ like something was strange and the worry… well, it was hard to sleep if you were wondering if you were bleeding to death on the inside or having a blood clot move through you or pieces of your heart and lungs shriveling up and dying while you just lay there waiting for the end to come.  Sam was right, this was the way he’d probably feel even when he was back on his feet.  The wrecked car with the new paint…

Other times he thought it was just that the only thing he did was lie in bed all day and why did the body need to rest when all you _did_ was rest?  His adventures in his wheelchair were the highlight of the physical part of his day, though the handful of steps to the loo ranked highly on the scale, too.  The sex with Mycroft counted, also, but that was not nearly as physical as he’d like, what with his lover being the most cautious man in the world.  He’d do anything right now just to get his muscles moving!  But no, all he could do was rest and perform the exercises John and Sam said he needed, which hurt like hell, but didn’t… didn’t feel like exercise.  Exercise made you tired, maybe ache a little, but you felt good when it was over.  Full of energy and you knew you’d accomplished something.  That was _not_ how he felt after these exercises.  All he felt was pain and that was only from moving his arms around…

This time, though, the reason was very different.  He was engaged.  _Him_.  He’d vowed once, when he was in a very dark place after his divorce, that he’d never marry again.  That he’d never let anyone get close enough to hurt him like that.  And here he was putting himself right in the crosshairs again.  And, despite all the history it took to get him to this place, it was _glorious_!  He was getting married!  To the most brilliant, sexy, amazing man in the entire world, too.  And Mycroft… trying to ask him… he was breathtaking with tears in his eyes.  Twice now he’d glimpsed a Mycroft Holmes completely undone by emotion and both were when he was talking about _them_.  Talking about what he felt and how much he cared.  They hadn’t had much time to explore this new direction in their relationship before Arthur went yelling through the house and when Mycroft returned… there simply wasn’t anything to say.  They were getting married… it was as concrete a fact as him having two arms and you didn’t need to discuss arms.  In fact…

      “Gregory, why are you not asleep?”

      “Because you’re talking to me.”

      “My, aren’t you a teller of untruths.”

      “Am I?  I think you’re assuming facts not in evidence.”

      “You are not a law practitioner, my dear.”

      “Maybe that’s what I can do if I can’t actually get back to my job.  By then, I’ll have enough experience talking with you to be able to run circles around any opponent luckless enough to get thrown in my path.”

      “I am always happy to be of service, however, your talents will not serve you now and I again ask, why are you not asleep?”

      “It’s nothing, love.  I was just thinking about… well, _us_ and I may have gotten a little overexcited.”

      “Are you again attempting to persuade me into a dalliance?”

      “No, you bastard.  I overexcited my _brain,_ so it woke me up to get its revenge.”

Mycroft had argued only perfunctorily before joining Lestrade in his hospital bed and was now happy he had not truly refused to take a place next to his partner because he would not have been able to carefully curl around Lestrade’s warm body as he was doing now.

      “I can then assume that you are still content with your decision?”

      “Of all the words in that big brain of yours, the only one you could come up with is _content_?”

      “I can provide for you a list of some length, in an assortment of languages, however, I believe ‘content’ is the appropriate choice, the implication begin both joyful and satisfied, which I dearly hope you are experiencing with the alteration of our status.”

Mycroft let his hand caress his new fiancé’s stomach, experiencing a surge of possessiveness with the act.  This man was his, had chosen to _be_ his and wished to take that commitment to its fullest extent, a wish he was more than delighted to grant. 

      “Believe me, I’m not regretting anything.  I love you, Mycroft, though I admit I didn’t think we’d consider this for a long time.  I did hope we would someday, so I can’t complain I’m getting that bit of luck sooner than expected.  It’s strange, though… I’m happy, but not giddy.  I’m excited, but not manic.  I… it’s like something’s finally happened that… well, I knew was coming and I was just biding time until it arrived.  Now it did and I’m… ok, you were right.  Content’s the right word.  It’s like a little flame inside me that’s sort of like the pilot for a boiler or oven.  It’s always there, burning away… sometimes it lights up a bigger, hotter fire and sometimes it just burns gently, but it always burns.  It’s never off and is as much a part of the bigger machine as a dial or door or plumbing.  I don’t know if that makes any sense…”

Mycroft placed a small kiss on his partner’s cheek and gave him a careful hug.

      “Not at all, Gregory.  I understand completely and agree wholeheartedly.  In truth, you have long occupied a space in my consciousness and never were wholly out of my thoughts.  There was strength to be drawn from that knowledge, a steadiness when there was chaos in the offering… it was…”

Mycroft paused and continued to pause, prompting Lestrade to whisper his name to encourage his lover to finish his thought.

      “It was why I burned so fiercely when I was… betraying you.  I can never adequately describe the pain of that shame, the horrible, searing pain of my actions.  You were always in my mind, _always_.  There was nothing I did that was not accompanied by the clear and unequivocal knowledge of my treachery.  I could not forget or hide for even a moment, because I could always sense you in my mind and in my heart.  I knew, for every action I took, exactly what that action represented and I… I shall not sound overwrought and state that I hated myself, but I will assure you my true sentiment was very much in that vein.  I do not exaggerate in the least when I express to you my gratitude for receiving the opportunity to redeem myself, though I do not believe I shall ever be fully worthy of your forgiveness, let alone your love.  I shall not, however, loosen even slightly my grip upon you, whether I be  a worthy man or not.  I burned with shame and now I burn with devotion and I fear that if I lose you, if you are not near to sustain me, there shall be nothing left but ash.”

Lestrade did his best to comfort his lover, though Mycroft gave him a gentle glare as he tried to roll onto his side, leaving a simple one-handed caress as his only option.

      “Don’t think like that, love.  Not any of it.  We’ve had our hard times and I’m sure there will be more, but mistakes don’t mean you’re not worthy of something.  Not learning from them is the biggest sin and I don’t think that’s one you’ll commit.  It still hurts sometimes, I won’t lie about that, but… here’s how I’m trying to look at things.  I felt about as miserable when that business happened as I did when Edgar put actual bullets into me, but I _wouldn’t_ have if I hadn’t loved you so much.  And I don’t think you would have felt as you did if you didn’t care so deeply for _me_.  We got hurt because we loved each other and that’s a good thing, in an odd way.  It’s proof, do you see?  Proof of what we really feel and that’s something helpful to keep in mind.”

      “You have a very optimistic turn of mind, my dear.”

      “It’s helped.  There were times I _couldn’t_ be optimistic, but when I can, I try.  I really do believe if you keep a good thought, things work out better than if you don’t.  So, I’m always trying to think I’ll be back at work, that we’ll be able to do the sorts of things we used to do again, that all I’m going to carry with me from being shot is my scars… if I think any other way, I have a feeling that worst will start to come true.  It’s the same with use… if I think that what I went through before is going to happen again… maybe it will.  So that’s not how I think.  I don’t want you doing it either, ok?  Can you at least try for me?”

      “I shall do my best, however, I have not found, personally, that the power of positive thinking has worked in my favor.”

      “Well, it’s worked in mine, so take that for you will.  Now, when do you have to actually wake up?  Can you get another couple of hours?”

      “Would that I could for I could lie here and find rest for more than my body, however, I was slated to wake shortly in any circumstance and my time would likely be best served simply making a start on my day.  My absence also might encourage you to take a few additional hours of rest.”

      “Not gonna happen.  I’m awake and that’s not changing.  Besides, I bet Arthur will be awake soon and I could murder a cup of his coffee.”

      “If he is not, I shall prepare for you a cup.  And ensure you are comfortable before I leave.”

      “Does that mean help me get rid of the coffee I drank?”

      “It does.  As well as any other activity that might improve your comfort.”

      “Fresh air would improve my comfort.  Think we might take a walk tonight after you get home?  Streets around here are safe after dark aren’t they?”

      “I believe a short stroll is not out of bounds, though we shall have to clothe you warmly.  And I can attest that the area is quite safe.  The only criminal we have suffered in quite some time was a fiendish canine who took to excavating a number of gardens without the owner’s permission.  A word was had with both the dog and the owner to rectify the situation.”

      “A word, that was it?”

      “What did you expect?”

      “Deportation, at the very least.”

      “Ah, an action, unfortunately, that is tricky to enact against an ambassador of an allied nation.  However, a small trade embargo may have been sanctioned until it was agreed that the offending mongrel was to be monitored for further transgressions.”

      “Trade embargo, huh… be honest, Mycroft.  There were doggie bombs, weren’t there.”

      “I cannot revisit that period without cringing, Gregory, so please do not force my memory.”

      “Ok, love… ok.  No more talk about the evil dog.  And we’ll take a nice stroll tonight in the quiet, safe poop-free neighborhood.”

      “Only so far as you are medically cleared and I am informed as to how long you are allowed to ride in your wheelchair.”

      “Fine, Mum.  I’ll get a doctor’s note and we’ll have a nice night of it.  Or an hour of a nice night of it.”

      “Half-hour at the greatest.”

      “I know who _I’m_ going to to get my note.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, your alliance with my brother for your more troublesome behaviors is positively unsettling.”

      “Bad boys stick together.”

      “And you _are_ a wicked, wicked boy, my dear.”

      “Which you can’t wait to explore in more detail.”

      “Naturally.  I am only human, after all.”

__________

      “Ah, Arthur.  I cannot express surprise that you are awake this early, however, I had thought the excitement of the evening might keep you in your bed a tad longer than usual.”

      “Mycroft!  Yes, I can see where you would think that, but I just couldn’t sleep.  Every time I tried my brain lit up from all the happiness and it was like trying to sleep with the sun right there in the room.  But inside my head.”

      “A most troubling dilemma.  And I see you have prepared coffee.  Might I trouble you for a small cup for Gregory?”

      “One teeny, Greg-sized coffee on its way.  Though I don’t know how he’s able to stay in bed after he’s had coffee because when I have coffee the last thing I can do is stay in bed!  Or sit in a chair.  Or stand in one place.”

      “I believe his years as a policeman have conferred to him a certain immunity to the more extreme effects of caffeine.”

      “You’re probably right.  Are you staying home today?  I’m not sure what we’re going to do, but it’s London, so no matter what it will be brilliant!”

      “Alas, but I must toil for the betterment of others, however, I shall return in time to escort Gregory on a small stroll.  We shall, then, have opportunity for conversation or perhaps one of your delightful games.”

      “Ooh!  I’ll try to think of something very special.  I don’t suppose you like…”

      “Charades is not on the approved list, my boy.  I am quite sorry.”

      “It’s not on anyone’s!  I just don’t understand why.”

      “That is something you are free to discuss with Sherlock.  I am certain he will be eager to provide clarity for you.”

      “That’s a good idea.  Mr. Sherlock is good at explaining things to me, even better than Skip, sometimes, but don’t tell Skip because… well, you can imagine the trouble that would cause!”

      “Truly it would be disastrous.  Now, I must hurry, but we may continue this conversation when I return.  Have a good day, Arthur.”

      “You, too, Mycroft!”

Arthur watched the middle Holmes carry away a half-filled cup of coffee and wondered why he looked… _something_ different this morning.  Mycroft actually smiled the entire time they were talking!  Admittedly, if you didn’t know it was one of Mycroft’s smiles, you’d never actually know it was a smile, because he didn’t so much as smile as not-smile, but it _was_ and he never stopped doing it once!  If this was a case, there would be a very great possibility that it was some form of clue, but this wasn’t a case… could you have clues for things that weren’t part of a case?  That would be another thing he could as Mr. Sherlock when they had their chat…

__________

      “Doctor Sam!  Why are you out of bed?”

Arthur tutted at the doctor, who was moving as slowly as cold honey into the kitchen.

      “Because bed isn’t a fun place when you’re there by yourself and I am _all_ about fun.”

      “But there’s lots of fun to be had in bed alone!  You can watch films and read and put on puppet shows with the blanket if you use your fingers to make little puppets.  They sort of look like tents, but I pretend they’re ghosts.”

      “And doesn’t that sound like a ton of laughs for a fun-loving kid like you, but for an old dog like me…”

      “Doctor Sam, I’m sorry to say, but I don’t think you’re actually old.  I won’t say you’re fibbing, but Mr. Sherlock is about the same age as Skip and Mycroft’s not _that_ much older than Mr. Sherlock and you’re not _that_ much older than Mycroft.  So… well, yes, I guess I do have to declare a fib.”

      “Age is a state of mind, Arthur, and my mind is nearly pre-historic.  I remember the first dinosaur I ever saw… fat little thing eating plants in a swamp.  Really, they were just a big pack of overgrown puppies, who ate lots of bushes and waddled around chasing sticks the cavemen threw.”

Arthur wagged his finger at Sam, who almost wagged a finger back, then remembered who he was talking to and which finger he was going to use, and scrapped his plan immediately.

      “I may not know much about science, but I do know that’s not true.  I don’t even have to check my book about dinosaurs.  And you shouldn’t be out of bed.  How are you going to get well if you’re always moving about, so your cut can’t stitch together?”

      “It’ll heal fine, Arthur, don’t worry about it.”

      “Fib.  Greg wouldn’t heal if he was up and walking and dancing and things.”

      “Yes, he would, though the thought of him dancing just put me off my breakfast.”

      “Fib.  And Greg is a _very_ good dancer.  I can say that because I saw him at my We Found Skip! party and he was brilliant!   I don’t think very much could put you off your breakfast, either, because you like to eat, just like I do.”

      “Ok, maybe I could shove down a little bit, but Greg as a dancer is still a sickening image.  The G-string alone makes me shudder.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Ask me again when we’re planning your bachelor party.  Now, how about I help you rustle up a…”

      “No.  And I’m not going to ask you if you feel well enough to help because you don’t but you’ll tell a fib anyway and I think you’ve had done enough fibbing already today.”

      “Pow!  Right in the kisser!  You’ve got a mean right hook, Arthur.  I am very impressed.”

      “Thanks!  But you’re still not helping.”

      “Alright then, I’ll just sit here and you can be my serving wench.  Got a really short skirt?”

      “Hmmm… I don’t think I do.  I could make one if I had my sewing machine.”

      “I’ll survive.  And look who’s here – Babylock!  Looking like he hasn’t slept a wink.  Good for you wearing John out so I don’t have to put up with his nonsense for another couple of hours.  You’re a pal, Sherly, I owe you one.”

      “Try not to speak to me.  Ever.”

      “You’re growing more and more like Mycroft every day.  I know that’s your goal in life, so you must be very proud.”

Sherlock’s undisguised horror was Sam’s reward, so he didn’t add insult to injury and chase his brother out of the room with a truly gruesome tirade.

      “Have a seat, Sherlock.  Arthur’s being a big grouch and not letting anyone help him, so all we can do is sit here and watch the show.”

      “Doctor Sam, we had a little chat about fibbing, didn’t we?”

      “If it was more than eight seconds ago, I actually forgot.”

      “Fibbing!”

      “Arthur, ignore Sherrinford as often as possible and you shall be the better for it.  And why do I not have a beverage?”

      “Speaking of ignoring someone… Arthur, ignore that sulking blob of the worst bits of the family genes.  Your manners suck, Sherlock.  How you are in any way related to the suave, sophisticated fellow that is me is completely mind-blowing.”

      “Not that our entanglement shall endure since you are but moments away from having your intestines spill out over Mycroft’s floor.”

      “Not gonna happen.  I slapped an extra layer of tape over things so I’m good to go.”

      “Fibbing!  Oh wait… that could be true, so I don’t know if it’s actually a fib or not.”

      “Assume, Arthur, that any instance when Sherrinford speaks it is a lie and you shall not be disappointed.  In fact, you should adopt the same philosophy with Mycroft and avoid _all_ possible disappointments.”

      “Mr. Sherlock…”

      “That’s his detective side coming out, Arthur.  Can’t be too trusting when you’re a private dick because you’re trying to find the truth and lots of people try and hide that.  But that’s why we hire dicks and Sherlock is the best and brightest, not to mention _biggest_ , dick of them all.”

      “He is!  Mr. Sherlock is a brilliant dick!”

Sam smiled smugly at his brother and hoped, someday, the boy would realize just who was the master and who was the apprentice.

      “And you make sure to tell everyone you meet today that very thing.  Sherlock Holmes is a big, brilliant dick.”

      “I will!  And Skip and I are going to be doing lots of things so I’ll have lots of people to tell.  I want to start my wedding album, not the one with my photos in it, but the one with all the information I’m going to need, though I could put photos in it if I wanted, like pictures of the people I got the information from, and Skip, and pictures of cakes and chocolates and suits, and Skip, and places we could use for parties or the wedding, and Skip…”

      “Arthur, you have a thousand pictures of Martin, you can forsake a few for the sake of expediency.”

      “But, Mr. Sherlock, I don’t have any pictures of Skip planning our wedding!  And we’re only going to do it once so if I don’t get them now, when will I get them?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kicked back when Sam kicked _him_ under the table.

      “You should bring Sherlock with you, kid.  Him and Dougie, you and Martin… I can’t think of a nicer day.”      

      “Yes!  Brilliant!  We can start the wedding planning and sightsee and have a wonderful time!”

No matter the intensity of his glare, Sam just laughed at Sherlock’s behavior and adored how cute his baby brother was.  Cute as a pouty little bug in a rug.  A pouty little bug who was going to love a day of wedding planning…

__________

And a day of wedding planning it was.  Through threat of a tantrum that would have shaken the foundations of the house, Sherlock forced John to join the merry band and, so far, they had visited more cake shops, stationary providers, men’s wear vendors and, finally, Arthur’s favorite chocolatier, who gladly sold Arthur a wealth of chocolate, which he charged to Sam’s bankcard, a little surprise he’d found in his pocket wrapped in a note that said ‘Buy yourself something tasty or pretty to wear, bonus points if you get something’s that’s both.’  Arthur couldn’t wait until Sam saw, along with the box of individual treats, the botanically-correct flower made entirely of chocolate that he’d purchased, which, with the pretty tissue backing he’d been given, he could pin to his jacket and wear as a boutonniere.  Sherlock couldn’t wait until Sam saw the bill.

By afternoon, Sherlock wondered if it was rude to fake his own death a second time, because he was officially tired of anything pertaining to weddings and, further, was irked that the only person in the group who seemed to share his thinking was Douglas.  Even John was happy to talk to florists and discuss the merits of live music versus a high-quality sound system.  It was not without some degree of ecstasy that the detective now found himself in the pub where Sam had taken Arthur, drinking something lethal enough to dull the edge of his ennui.

      “Today has been…”

      “Brilliant?”

      “Yes!  Thanks, Skip!  Look at all the information we found!”

Arthur lifted the messenger bag filled with brochures, booklets, pamphlets, paper samples, maps, business cards, price lists, menus and whatever else he could collect from the shops and services they’d investigated.  The stop to buy the messenger bag came early in the trip.

      “And we’ve got lots of time to get more!”

      “Arthur, love, five weeks isn’t a lot of time, especially since we have to _do_ something with all of that information, like actually organize the wedding.”

      “I know, but we’ve got tomorrow and there are _lots_ of hours in tomorrow.”

John patted Martin’s shoulder sympathetically and made a mental note to take Martin out for a pint at some point to commiserate.  Having a… dynamic… partner made them part of a very special club.

      “Which you and Sir are happily going to enjoy in each other’s company with no intrusion, in any form, by, say… me.  I believe a good day with some of the fine port I spied on offer and an enthralling book in my hand shall be my preferred way to pass the time.”

And the port looked very fine, indeed.  An unopened bottle would fetch quite the price in selected markets to which they might be flying in the near future.

      “Oh, that does sound nice, Douglas, but not as nice as planning my wedding, so I think I’ll still do that.  And…”

The ringtone on Arthur’s phone wasn’t one Martin had heard before, but he desperately didn’t want his fiancé to answer, seeing the look on Arthur’s face when the steward heard the heavy, horror-film soundtrack his phone was emitting.

      “Arthur?”

Arthur didn’t answer his skipper, instead, taking a deep breath and answering the call.

      “Hi, Dad.”

Everyone at their table set down their drinks and felt no shame motioning Arthur to put the phone on speaker so they could monitor the conversation for anything that would upset the steward.

      “Arthur, what’s the story with your wedding?”

And four hearts grew heavy watching Arthur’s eyes light up with excitement.  Gordon Shappey didn’t call his son to spread joy and cheer, but Arthur had yet to accept that fact.

      “Brilliant!  We’re actually doing a lot of planning and investigating today!  We’ve only got five weeks to get all the details in order and there are a _lot_ of details to get in order, more than I realized, but we’ve got help and…”

      “Stop.  All I care about is that the wedding is still going forward.”

      “It is.  I told you that no matter what anyone thinks, and you’re a person so you count as anyone, I’m marrying Skip.”

      “Good.  At least you haven’t bungled it yet.  And did I hear you say five weeks?  You’re going to be married in just over a month?”

      “Yes!  I was going to wait until Greg felt better, but he does feel better even though he’s not actually better, well, he _is_ a little better, but he’s still got holes you can see and…”

      “There is so little in that nonsense that I care about that I’m going to forget all of it except the word ‘yes.’  Now, I’m finishing up my business in the city and then I’ll be in Fitton this afternoon.  I want to have a talk with you, so…”

      “But I’m not in Fitton.”

      “What?”

      “Skip and I aren’t in Fitton.  We will be in a few days if that’s ok, but not today because Mycroft’s at work and I don’t want to disturb him just to ask if we can have a helicopter to go home for the afternoon.”

The flurry of waving hands in front of Arthur’s face while he was talking confused him terribly and he began to suspect someone was trying to hypnotize him, though he didn’t know why.

      “YOU’RE IN LONDON!”

      “Please don’t shout, Dad.  I’d rather not be asked to leave the pub because you’re being shouty, especially when you’re not even here so I can point to you and explain.  And, yes…”

This flurry of hands was flurrier than before and Arthur had to snatch the phone off the table to prevent John from grabbing it first.

      “… we’re in London.”

      “Well… this is quite the opportunity.”

      “Pardon?”

      “To meet the upcoming additions to the family.  Have a chat, discuss a few things… “

      “Oh, I guess that sounds alright.  I mean, you _should_ meet everyone, since they’re part of my and Skip’s family and since you’re my family, it’s only proper.”

      “Perfect.  Why don’t I arrange…”

This flurry of hands got swatted away by Douglas, who made a surprisingly good show of pantomiming a message Arthur could understand.

      “Actually, why don’t I do that?  I don’t know what everyone has to do today or how long it will take on when Mycroft will come home or if Greg’s going to feel well enough to visit, so I’ll call you and let you know what I figure out.  Is that alright?”

      “That’s actually a good idea.  I’m surprised.  Don’t get distracted and forget, though.  I’m only here until tomorrow and I do _not_ want to miss this chance.  Do you understand me, Arthur?”

      “Not really, no.”

      “Good.  I expect to hear from you soon.”

Arthur stared at his phone, realizing he had no idea what he was going to do and decided the other people at the table weren’t going to be of much help since they all seemed to have headaches and were holding their heads in their hands or doing some form of eye rubbing to try and feel better.  Well, there was only one thing for it…

      “Arthur, what are you doing?”

      “Mr. Sherlock, I realize you might have a bit of a headache, but if you can’t see well enough to know I’m making a call, then I have to start worrying more than I already am.  Oh!  It’s ringing.”

Sherlock looked at Martin, who just waved off the inquiry with a ‘we’re off the rails already, so who cares’ sort of flick of the wrist.

      “Doctor Sam!  Yes!  Hi, it’s Arthur.”

      “You know, I got that even before you said your name.”

      “I do have a distinctive voice.  I’ve been told that a lot.”

      “And you’ve been told right.  What can I do for you?  Need someone to referee a fight over tablecloth colors or something?”

      “No, but that would be brilliant, since we are having a bit of a disagreement over that.  You see, Skip thinks…”

      “BUT, that’s not why you called, so why don’t you get that part over with first and we can talk about linens another time.”

      “Right!  Ok, it’s like this.  Dad called.”

Sam looked at Greg and mouthed ‘fuck,’ before putting his own phone on speaker so the DI could hear the conversation.

      “You ok?  That bag of… corncobs didn’t upset you, did he?”

      “No, actually.  I’m not sure exactly what he wants because everyone was waving at me and it was hard to concentrate on understanding Dad and keep myself from being hypnotized, but I _did_ understand that he’s in London and wants a little get-together.  And I know he wants to meet everyone, so I’m not sure what’s best to make that happen.”

      “Got it.  I tell you what, you call your Dad back and tell him it’ll be cocktails here at say… 7:00 pm.  Tell him Mycroft might be tied up until later, but we’ll keep him company until Skinny gets here.  That sound good to you?”

      “Brilliant!  And if we have a little party at Mycroft’s house, Greg can be there, too.  I’ll call Dad right away and tell him.  Thanks, Doctor Sam!  I knew you’d have a good idea.”

      “No problem, Arthur.  I’ll see you guys later.”

Sam terminated the call and smirked at Lestrade who was already rubbing his hands in anticipation.

      “We’re going to make that bastard sorry he was ever born.”

      “Fuck yeah, we are.  Hold on a minute.”

With a touch of his finger, Sam put through a call to Mycroft, one he knew would get through straight to his brother and score another point for his side in their eternal war...

__________

What an immensely tedious day.  If he was coated in honey and staked out in a badger pen, it would be a more pleasurable experience than the various tasks he’d had to manage since he set foot in his office.  When the phone on his desk rang, it could only mean one thing.  Another matter of state designed purely to try his patience.  It was somewhat of a surprise when the caller ID announced he was being hailed by Marlene Dietrich.

      “Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Skinny!  That sounded real professional, just so you know.  Like a butler in one of those big, fancy houses you see in the movies.”

Blast!  How in heaven’s name did Sherrinford get this particular number?  It was more than slightly classified…

      “How did you obtain this…”

      “Oh, don’t ask that, because then you’ll know and have to arrest me, which will make Arthur cry and then you’ll be in shit deeper than an outhouse pit.  Anyway, what time are you coming home?”

      “Is there a problem?  Gregory… he is not…”

      “Your honey-bunny sugar-nuts is just fine.  But… we’re having a guest and you _will_ want a piece of this.”

      “A guest?  Sherrinford, if you have invited any form of… entertainment…”

      “It’s Arthur’s dad.  But, yeah… I think entertainment might just describe it.”

Now it was Mycroft rubbing his hands in glee.  His day had just been salvaged.

      “Time?”

      “I said 7:00 pm, but you might want to get here a little later to make an entrance.  I’ll take care of getting things set up.”

      “Excellent.  Is Arthur in good spirits?”

      “Not bad.  But they’ll probably shop away any lingering ghosts, so don’t worry about him.  Just bring your A-game with you, little brother.  There’s fun to be had and I don’t want to be the only one having it.”

      “Fret not about that.  I am most certain there is sufficient, as you say, fun for all to have their share.  Now, I have matters to attend to if I wish to make my appearance this evening before midnight.   Relay my love to Gregory, if you would be so kind.”

      “I’m not kissing him, though.”

      “Thank heavens for small favors.”

Sam listened for the click, then started blowing kisses at Greg who laughed and pretended to catch them in the air.

      “Good to know Mycroft sends his love.”

      “He’s a big ol’ romantic, at heart.  Remind me to tell you about catching him reading _Pride and Prejudice_ when he was young.  I think he had a crush on Mr. Darcy for years afterwards.”

      “Who didn’t?”

      “You two are meant for each other.  And I know where you can get your hands on a first edition to give him for Christmas.  Talk about romantic…  he’ll be putty in your hands.”

      “Done!  And now… think you can find me something posh to wear so I don’t look like an invalid?”

      “Oh yeah, and there’s time to get something delivered if Skinny’s closets aren’t offering up anything good.  Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, Greg, ol’ Sam’s on the case and he’s not going to let you miss this for the world.”

      “You’re a good man, Sam.”

      “And don’t you forget it.”


	14. Chapter 14

      “Arthur, are you ready yet?”

Martin was already exhausted from the day and had no idea how he’d survive another one as full of wedding… things… as this one.  And he had another five weeks to look forward to!  Sam’s idea of eloping was suddenly becoming quite attractive.

      “Almost.  You’re not peeking, are you?”

When they arrived back at Mycroft’s house, Sam had greeted them with a very wide and wicked smile and sent everyone to their rooms to get ready for the evening, except for Arthur who was taken away with Sam’s arm around his shoulder to Lestrade’s room for his preparations.

      “No, I’m not peeking.  It’s hard to do that when the door’s locked and you’re on the other side of it.”

Actually, Martin _had_ tried looking through the keyhole in a sad attempt to mimic someone from a B-grade detective film, but he hadn’t seen anything.  And he _did_ want to see something because he was very anxious to know what was happening to his fiancé in the hands of two of the most notorious troublemakers in the house.  And… when he arrived in their bedroom, he’d found a suit hanging with a note that said ‘Put this on and no backtalk or your ass is going to be the color of the red stripe of a candy cane.’  It was a nice suit, too.  Actually, suit might not be the right word since it was really just trousers, a shirt and a jacket, but it was… _nice_.  It fit perfectly, also, and the color, with greens and creams, made him look… good.  Not stuffy or formal or ready to go to a funeral, but… stylish.  And now he was desperate to see what was in store for his fiancé, especially since he was apparently being given special treatment.

      “He’ll be ready when he’s r…ready!”

      “Thanks for that, Greg.  And why do you sound out of breath?”

      “Nothing to worry ab…bout, just don’t comment on Arthur walking funny.”

      “But Greg, my shoes fit brilliantly, they don’t hurt at all!”

How he, a responsible and serious captain of an airplane, fell into this pit of juvenile jokesters was something he would never be able to undestand.  Sherlock and Mycroft, at least, weren’t giggling infants.  Usually.

      “Sir, attempting to catch a glimpse of one’s betrothed in their wedding gown is the height of bad luck.”

      “We didn’t buy a wedding…dress…today…”

Martin turned at stared at Douglas who was wearing a very smart ensemble with a crisp white shirt, a loose, pale-blue jacket and trousers that made him look like a wealthy businessman having lunch at one of those posh restaurants where everyone wore sunglasses on the terrace and you had to make a reservation a year in advance if you weren’t one of the sunglasses-on-the-terrace crowd.

      “Didn’t we?  My mistake.  I lost consciousness a few times from boredom and simply assumed that was part of our agenda.  And don’t you look… well, I would say smart, but there are several ways to interpret that word and not all of them are entirely applicable for every situation.  Like this one.”

      “Yes, well… thank you for your usual wealth of compliments.  I’m simply worried because Arthur has been in a locked room with Sam and Greg and if he’s still not ready, then… there’s reason to worry!”

      “Since Arthur is a grown man, one might assume that his grooming was a simple matter, however, since it _is_ Arthur, simple is never a guaranteed thing.”

      “Why is everyone standing in the hallway?”

If Martin never saw his cousin looking for all the world like a male model, complete with… hair… and clothes, he would be a happy man.  Sherlock’s curls were both tamer and wilder, if that was even possible, and… trousers that light a grey color shouldn’t good on anyone, especially when paired with a billowy plum-colored shirt, but he looked like someone from one of those fashion programs and it just wasn’t fair.

      “Martin is concerned that Arthur is being corrupted by Sherry and Greg and is mustering the physical prowess to break down the door to rescue his damsel.”

      “Arthur is perfectly capable of confounding any attempted corruption and Martin lacks anything approximating physical prowess.  However, if Arthur is being put through the clownish dressing ordeal that I was forced to endure then his concerns are not entirely without merit.  John… amused himself.”

      “That I did, but on your brother’s orders, I might add.”

John joined the rest of the hovererers and Martin thought all he needed was a yacht and he’d look right at home.  Very casually-posh and confident, with tan trousers and a buttonless cream shirt that fit loosely, but accentuated the doctor’s solid form.  The millionaire with his runway model on his arm.  This stupid cocktail party was already going to painful enough and now he had to worry about feeling more out of place by spilling his drink on his shirt or wrinkling his trousers and looking like someone trying to sneak into the party through the rear door.

      “ARTHUR!”

      “Skip!  You really do need to calm down because I’m going to be another moment and then we have to finish with Greg.  Why don’t you go and have a nice little drink and a sit down.”

      “Because I’ll spill my drink and wrinkle my trousers!”

His nightmare was already coming true!

      “Come on, Martin… whatever they’re doing isn’t going to be rushed, so we might as well get the party started early.”

John smiled, nodding towards the sitting room and Martin simply huffed out a large breath and followed, ignoring the smirk on Douglas’s face and Sherlock’s roll of his eyes.  A potent beverage didn’t sound like the worse idea in the world and with Gordon arriving soon, the more relaxed he was, the less chance he’d punch his future father-in-law in the face.  Or care when the paparazzi burst in to start taking Sherlock’s picture for the nightly entertainment news.

__________

Martin fretted and refused to relax until Sam’s shout of ‘make way for the cool crowd’ sounded the alarm and the slow procession of figures came into view in the door of the sitting room.  Then he still couldn’t relax, but it was for an entirely different reason.  His Arthur was…

      “Skip?”

      “Arthur?”

      “With your mouth open you look a little like one of the fishes we saw when we went snorkeling that time we found the Mycroft fish and the Greg fish.”

Martin snapped his mouth shut and was glad, after he looked around, that he wasn’t the only one staring.  His Arthur was a jolly soul and had a jolly, teddy-like figure to match.  His body was just perfect and suited him marvelously.  Now…

      “You look like Brick Steel.”

      “Hurray!  Isn’t it brilliant!  Doctor Sam said he was going to make me look very posh and formidable and I told him about Brick Steel and he said I’d look just like that when he was done!”

With a bit of gel in his hair taming his fiancé’s locks and a dark suit cut in such a way that made his natural _roundness_ look… intimidating, Martin was having to hope he wasn’t visibly drooling or panting.  If Arthur actually made his… oh no, he was making his Brick Steel face…

      “Skip?  What’s wrong?”

      “Martin has been overcome by what appears to be lust.”

      “Oh… thank you, Mr. Sherlock.  Skip, it’s probably not polite to be lusty in public.  But… I’m happy you are.”

Good.  A blushing Brick Steel wasn’t nearly as sexy-bad-boy looking as his non-blushing self and Martin had a window of opportunity to get his hormones under control.

      “Doesn’t he look like a million bucks?  Drop that kid in a nightclub anywhere in the world and he’s going to be the one all the wannabe’s are crowding around hoping to catch a few stray drops of his sweat or dollars from his wallet.”

Martin decided then and there that if he could save a little cash and they held onto these suits, he would take Arthur to a fancy club the next time they were in London.  Arthur would be mesmerized by the music and lights…

      “I guess _we_ look like a couple of tramps though.  Sam, I think I’ll go back to bed and cry myself to sleep.”

      “These young people have no appreciation for classic style, Gregster… you just have to feel sorry for them.”

Actually, Martin _had_ noticed and was forced to admit, at least to himself, that if he wasn’t a happily engaged man and didn’t know the two older men he would probably be having thoughts that were a little nauseating seeing that he _did_ know the two older men and… no.  Just no.  But there was no doubt Mycroft was going to choke when he saw Greg because… no.  Final word – no.

      “You’re not embarrassing, you sad excuse for a doctor, but I won’t go any further than that.”

      “Thanks, John.  There’s a reason I picked out a slightly-constipated-insurance-executive look for you.  And you wear it fabulously.”

John’s rude gesture was met by an even-ruder one as he stepped forward to relieve Arthur from Lestrade-support duty and help Sam get the DI settled into the firm-backed chair that had been brought in especially for him.  For his part, Arthur took the opportunity to sidle up to Martin and give him a large, excited grin.

      “Do you really think I look nice, Skip?”

      “Arthur… you look amazing.”

      “Brilliant!  Doctor Sam and Greg said I looked very striking, but I wasn’t certain if they were just being nice.”

      “No… no they weren’t.  And your engagement bracelet really goes with the look.”

      “It really does, doesn’t it?  Greg said I look like someone you’d see in a magazine!  I don’t think I’d ever wear these clothes in Fitton because… well, I’d feel a little odd since nobody wears clothes like these in Fitton, but I don’t mind since we’re in London and lots of people wear magazine clothes, so I wouldn’t look out of place.”

Out of place?  No, he’d look like someone every unattached person in sight would flock to in hopes of attracting his attention.  Martin made the not-at-all painful decision that Arthur would not be exploring London in his magazine clothes unless _he_ was present.  Along with a few of Mycroft’s armed assassins.

      “Though… well, I’d be a little worried since you’d wear your nice clothes and then everyone would be trying to make you their boyfriend because… woof.  You look very handsome tonight, Skip.  _Very_ handsome.”

And the eyebrow wiggle made Martin think thoughts of a nature very inappropriate for a cocktail party with family which, from the American-accented cackle he heard from across the room he wasn’t hiding very effectively.

      “I believe we can agree that Martin has successfully departed from his standard ginger-waif facade and joined the adults among us.  Really, Sherry, nicely done.  I wouldn’t have thought Sir had it in him, but apparently, he does.”

      “Thanks, Douglas, old pal.  Dated a woman one time who did wardrobe work for the big movie studios.  Learned a thing or two about pulling a look together quick and on the cheap.”

Though Douglas was very, very certain that the word ‘cheap’ was criminally misused for this situation.  The going rate for his particular set of garments was quite the happy set of numbers and if he didn’t look perfectly dashing in them, they would do marvelous things for his wallet on the international trading market.

      “Well, I’ll throw in my gratitude, as well.  Sherlock, you’re wearing that the next time we have a night out.”

      “Probably for about three m… minutes.  Watch out, Sherlock.  John’s having impure thoughts.”

      “Save your breath for… breathing, Lestrade.  Anyway, I find nothing disagreeable about John’s plan.”

Douglas watched the banter and came to the conclusion that the sack of cats Martin and Arthur had dropped into was a mangy and slightly insane one, however, there was little doubt that his friends were in the best possible sack they could be.  He had never seen Martin or Arthur treated as if they were part of a group and… it seemed to bring out very interesting sides of the captain and steward.

      “Looks like I’ve got a good night ahead of me.  You’re paying the cleaning bill for all of this, aren’t you Sam?  I’m just a poor temperature-taker, after all.”

Although he had a very pertinent comment ready to go, Sam’s reply to John was cut off by the sound of the door chime.  All eyes turned to the clock on a small side table and congratulated Gordon on his punctuality.

      “Oh!  What do I do?”

      “Arthur, you stand here by Greg and look imposing.  Sherlock’s going to drop on the couch and look bored… his specialty.  Martin and John are going to start pouring drinks, apple juice is in the decanter on the end, Douglas will have a seat in that very old and surprisingly unfrilly chair and look stately and I’ll answer the door.  How’s that for a plan?”

Arthur leapt over to stand by Lestrade and did a little dance.

      “Yes!  Perfect!  Brilliant!  Hi Greg.  I’m going to look imposing.”

      “Good lad.  Let’s see the face again.”

Arthur demonstrated his fierce bodyguard expression and Lestrade gave both thumbs up in approval.  Right now, he felt a little like he needed a bodyguard since he was feeling close to falling out of his chair.  Not in a bad way, though… more like having a laugh at something ridiculously funny and toppling over while your mates looked on and called you an idiot.  Whatever it was that Sam gave him was certainly working.  Not feeling the pain at all.  This was going to be a fun night…

      “Ok, we’re going for ‘look at us and weep, mother fucker’ so nobody do anything stupid and spoil it.  And since the first one to so something stupid will probably be me, I think you guys are all going to do a great job.”

Greg waved at Sam who waved back, then slowly walked off to answer the door.  Slowly, which in this case, he was going to call sedately.  Or calmly.  Or disinterestedly.  Or savoir faire-ly.  Not give a fuck-ly worked, too.

      “Oh, hello.  May I help you?”

That was full of don’t give a shit.  Score one for the home team.

      “Gordon Shappey.  Here to see Mycroft Holmes.”

And we’re off and running!  Miserable little crapsack…

      “Mycroft’s not here at the moment, but you _are_ expected, Mr. Shappey.  Please, come in.”

 Notice my slightly oh-someone-farted smile, Gordon, you worthless excuse for a vertebrate.  Or invertebrate.  Shit, no one would have you, not even mold.

      “Do follow me.”

Gordon wasn’t certain if he should dismiss the tall American as unimportant, but decided to hold off passing judgment until he had more information.  Anyway, he had enough to occupy his attention as it was.  This was _exactly_ what he had expected.  Very upper class area, but _class_ was the operative word.  Nothing ostentatious or pretentious, but you could smell the money and power in the air.  Every household on this street had a country estate and few vacation homes to their names, at least, and the interior… exactly like something out of one of those home-showcase programs.  This was what was landing in his lap and if there was a time he was thankful for that son of his that time was now.  He’d worked hard for his money, but it was money.  This was _money_ and business possibilities and calling cards into the kinds of parties that getting an invitation to required your great-grandfather and the host’s great-grandfather sharing rooms at college.  How that strange little ginger of a pilot was part of this golden ticket was and would happily remain a mystery, because the only thing that mattered _was_ that he was and Arthur was going to marry him.

Sam led Gordon into the sitting room where the businessman narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in irritation.

      “Douglas Richardson?  What are you doing here?”

      “Sitting, if my grasp of reality is still as firm as ever.”

      “You never were as amusing as you thought you were.”

      “Excellent use of past tense, Gordon, old chum, but I prefer to live in the now, where I am _exactly_ as amusing as I think I am.”

This was not ideal.  If there was a grubber for money more cagey and tenacious as Douglas Richardson, Gordon had yet to meet them.  Fortunately, the man was also a pompous tit who lacked any sense of subtlety, so a threat he most certainly was not.

      “I think you’ll find you’re quite mistaken.  Now, where is Arthur?”

A large round of mental congratulations went around the room until Sam cleared his throat and pointed to the steward, who was finding it harder to maintain his fierce camouflage with his dad in the room.

      “Arthur?”

      “Hi, Dad.”

Gordon blinked a few times and then a few times more at the figure looking back at him with a decided lack of hesitation and submissiveness in his eyes.

      “Arthur?”

      “Arthur, lad… should have told us your dad was visually-impaired.  Martin, why don’t you help Mr. Shappey find a seat and put a glass of something in his hand?”

Martin smiled at Lestrade, then turned to Gordon who glared at him and then turned to glare at Lestrade, who wore his own easy grin.

      “And who are you?”

      “Me?  Just a friend of the family.  Decided a drinks night was a good way to spend the evening.  Speaking of… why don’t I have anything in my hand?”

      “Calm down, Greg and find some manners will you?  We’ve got a guest.”

John sauntered over to the drinks cart and poured the DI a good two fingers of apple juice.  Slapping that into Lestrade’s hand, he turned to Gordon and favored the enemy with his most pleasant and placid smile, since Martin was having a hard time taking his eyes off of Arthur long enough to actually bartend.

      “And what can I offer you?”

      “Whiskey, if you’ve got it.”

      “Oh, we do…”

The fact that Gordon hadn’t taken a seat filled John with a lovely feeling of evil.  Nothing better than keeping the enemy off balance.  For Gordon’s part, he was trying to remember where he’d heard the name ‘Greg’ before… did Arthur jabber it during one of his indecipherable phone conversations?  He was certain he’d heard it before, so this ‘Greg’ _was_ someone of importance.

      “… and why don’t you have a seat on the sofa.  Sherlock, make room.”

John couldn’t be prouder of Sherlock’s visible annoyance and slow, reluctant repositioning which was very much like a cat being forced to move to let someone else have space on its current throne.  And wasn’t it nice that dear old Mr. Shappey looked positively sick at the thought of sitting next to the deliciously dressed detective.

      “I’ll… yes, thank you.”

Gordon took position on the sofa as far from Sherlock as he could, though Sherlock’s long arms draped over the sofa back and general space-dominating slouch still made it too close for comfort.  When John handed him the heavy crystal glass filled with fine whiskey, half the liquid disappeared in a single swallow.  The only thing unpleasant about dealing with the very rich was dealing with the people who hung around the neck of the very rich.  Though, the vaguely gigolo-like one sitting next to him looked extremely similar to… no.  No, his eyes had to be playing tricks on him.

      “And are you a family friend, too?”

Sherlock snorted and flapped his hand as if he was trying to shoo away the very idea.

      “Friend is the last term I would use.”

      “Au contraire, Dupin.  I would say you are a very great family friend.  Arthur counts you as one of his dearest companions.”

Gordon’s eyes widened at Douglas’s words and stared again at the creature that was masquerading as his son.

      “Oh very well… if I _must_ be labeled then there are worse ones to have tied around my waist.”

Sherlock reconfigured himself to take up even more of the sofa and both Lestrade and Sam fought to hold back a laugh at Gordon’s obvious discomfort.  The detective had fallen into the swing of things quite nicely and, as hoped, kept the focus off of Arthur so the boy didn’t have to suffer his father’s bile in any shape or form.

      “And I suppose we should introduce ourselves.  I know how you Brits get about manners.  I’m Sam Harris.  This here’s Greg Lestrade.  That’s John Watson.  You already know Douglas and Martin and are getting to know Sherlock pretty damned well, if I do say so.  We’re heard a lot about you, Gordon.  Good to finally put a face to the name.”

Sam smiled the smile he had been told looked like a wolf that had just seen a very juicy rabbit limping across a field and gave Arthur a firm shoulder squeeze.  Yeah, watch me be very familiar with your son there, Gordon.  Arthur has friends and it’s already scratching at your brain that these friends aren’t little kids you can order around with your failed attempts at being a force to be reckoned with.

      “Yes… well, I have to admit, I didn’t realize Arthur had expanded his… associations so broadly.”

      “Yeah, well… a man should always have a part of his life that he keeps to himself.  Especially when you move in these circles, know what I mean?”

Actually, Gordon knew exactly what he meant.  At this level of wealth and influence, you had people pulling at you all day long, countless hands trying to get a piece of you and you had to keep part of your life separate for you own sanity.  Of course, that didn’t mean separate from one’s father, so that would be the end of that.  At least for matters pertaining to Arthur’s new London connections… the rest his son was more than welcome to keep completely away from any of his senses.

      “Indeed I do.  And I take it you are all connected to Mr. Holmes in some manner?”

Sam looked down at Greg and it was a struggle for both men to keep a straight face.

      “Oh yes, some of us more than others.  Greg here, for instance, is screwed in tighter than the rest of us combined.”

John and Douglas’s sniggering washed away more of Martin’s anxiety and he finally began to relax a little.  Gordon wasn’t getting the smallest foothold here and Arthur had a wall of bodies between him and any trouble should it even start to arise, even if two of those bodies were being held together by stitches, tape and pain medication.

      “Then I’m happy to meet all of you.  Business acquaintances, I assume?”

      “To an extent.  We transact from time to time.  But you know what… that ding-a-ling never paid me for my last gig.  He’s going to get an interest penalty so flaming big his bank book’s going to burn for a week.”

      “Oh come on, Sam… you think you’d be honored doing such important work.  Do you know what would happen to London if you’d turned down his offer?”

      “Offer?  That was a favor for you, John.  You.  And look what it’s gotten me.  A pocket full of nothing.”

      “Good lord, Samuel.   I’ve met toddlers who exhibited a greater degree of dignity.”

      “Why would anyone in the world allow toddlers around you, Douglas?”

Arthur watched the conversation and was happy all he had to do was stand there and look serious.  And keep Greg from falling out of his chair; Doctor Sam had been adamant about that and he wasn’t going to let him or Greg down.  It was going just like Doctor Sam and Greg had said it would, too.  Everyone would keep Dad busy and he wouldn’t have to worry about doing or saying anything because doing or saying anything always seemed to end up making him upset when it came to Dad.  Though, this time, it seemed like it was Dad who was a little upset.  Or confused.  Or both.  Which didn’t really make sense since Doctor Sam and Douglas and Doctor Watson and Greg and Mr. Sherlock were brilliant to talk to and interesting and funny and looked especially smashing tonight in their new clothes.  Not as smashing as Skip, of course, but he might be a tiny bit biased about that.  But that was ok, because he was allowed to be biased since Skip was his fiancé and soon Skip would be his husband and there would be a wedding, which he had to think about quietly or he’d start dancing and singing and Brick Steel didn’t dance or sing.  Well, maybe he did, but probably not the way Arthur Shappey did, so that wouldn’t be good at all.

      “How you doing, Arthur?”

Arthur looked down at Greg, who grinned at him and nodded towards the rest of the group.

      “Well, I think.  So far, it’s just like you and Doctor Sam told me it would be.”

      “Always listen to your elders, lad.  Unless they’re stupid.  Or bastards.  Or are trying to play a trick on you which, in all fairness, Sam and I might do with a pint or two in us.”

      “But it would be a nice trick, right?”

      “Oh yeah, definitely a nice trick.”

      “That’s alright, then.  Dad seems like he’s having… well, not a good time, but he’s not gotten shouty yet, so that’s brilliant.”

      “I doubt he’ll get shouty with this lot.  He doesn’t know how we’re connected to his target, so he’s not going to want to upset any of us and risk making Mycroft angry.  That’s going to be something to remember, Arthur.  You’ve got Mycroft’s hand on your shoulder and you can leverage that with someone like your dad if you need to.  Remind him that being a bastard to you has consequences.  He might never be a proper father on his own merits, but you can make him act like one if you need to.  And don’t be afraid to do it.  Normally, I wouldn’t advocate the ‘I’m telling’ technique, but this is a special situation.”

      “Thanks, Greg!  I’ll remember that.  And how… how are you feeling?  I can tell you’re very happy, but are Doctor Sam’s pills still working?”

      “They’re working fantastically.  Got a little winded with all the preparation, but I’m doing brilliantly now.  Nice to actually be out of bed for a change.  Lucky thing Sam found this chair or I might not be so thrilled about life.”

      “It looks a bit like a throne, which actually makes sense since because you and Mycroft live here and they say that a man is king of his castle, so you _should_ have a throne!  Both of you should have thrones, really, but I’m not certain if a castle can have two kings, so one of you might have to be the queen.”

      “I’ll let Mycroft be the queen.  He’s much lovelier than I am.”

      “He _is_ a very pretty man and elegant like one of those brilliantly posh ladies in those movies where they wear beautiful dresses and sit out on the lawn of their huge houses drinking tea and eating tiny sandwiches.”

      “And I’m going to use that very argument when we fight for the titles.”

      “BRILLIANT!  I mean brilliant.”

      “Well, that was quiet. Brick Steel doesn’t get excited, does he?”

      “Actually, he does, but it’s a tiny excited that he keeps inside so nobody sees it.”

      “That’s probably for the best, being fearsome and all.”

      “Yes, I do believe it is.”

__________

Gordon Shappey prided himself on being able to read people.  You couldn’t be as successful in business as he was if you couldn’t tell if someone was lying to you or had an agenda.  What he was seeing was… puzzling.  The tall American was not nearly the jackanapes he appeared to be, but who he really was under the mask… that wasn’t something Gordon had a firm grip on.  The man in the chair, Greg, had said little, but was taking in every word and having whispered conversations with Arthur.  Arthur… what in the hell was going on with Arthur?  He looked… well, he looked like a man of substance for once in his life and what that meant, who the hell knew?  Martin and Douglas were easy to evaluate and had no surprises up their sleeves besides their presence in this very tasteful home.  Then it was that little man, John… not as comfortable in his togs as the rest of them, but definitely comfortable with the people present.  Looked more like someone who should be wearing something simple and casual so he could be ready for trouble… had the air of someone at ease with having to step in and bring a situation to a halt, even with his diminutive size.  And the other one… his partner on the sofa kept looking at him as if he was a bug under a microscope.  There was a lot going on behind those eyes, but the boy didn’t seem to want to share his thoughts.

What struck him most sharply was that the people in the room, barring Carolyn’s pets and Arthur, had more going on than met the eye and that was actually encouraging.  Nobody worth their salt put all their cards on the table at a first meeting.  Or a second or third.  Or ever, depending on who they were dealing with.  Further, they were close-knit and highly familiar with Mycroft Holmes’s home.  They were relaxed, as if they were frequent and welcome guests.  That was also encouraging.  Arthur was not only ingratiating himself with the powerful Mycroft Holmes, but with those in his close circle.  Really, this situation was getting better and better… his sofa companion’s scrutiny notwithstanding.

      “So, Gordon, what brings you to London?  Hoping to lend a hand with the wedding planning?”

Douglas would long relish the shudder than ran through Gordon’s body.  At least they didn’t have to worry about another cook spoiling the broth.  Not that it was much of a worry to begin with…

      “No.  Actually, I had a few matters of business to work out.  That’s the way it is, you know, when you’re actually make your own money.  Not your bailiwick, Douglas, but I’m sure the other gentlemen here understand that quite well.”

      “Oh, without doubt, Gordon, without doubt.  Take Sherlock over there, if you are so inclined… simply a master at making his fortune.  International reputation, too.  And only recently did a highly important job for our absent host.  Very hush hush, but I think we can let on that young Arthur was instrumental in bringing that matter to a successful conclusion.”

Arthur had never seen that look on his father’s face, especially when talking to Douglas, and wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but Mr. Sherlock was smiling so it must be something good.

      “Arthur has a decided talent for certain areas of my work and he is, fortunately, amenable to a cooperative venture.”

Gordon stared at the vaguely debauched boy next to him and, ached to pry more into the issue.  What in the world could Arthur be doing with someone like this?  The more he thought about it, too, the more familiar that name sounded.  Sherlock… maybe they had some acquaintances in common… he _had_ been working to extend a hand to the younger up-and-comers in the entrepreneurial arena…

      “Good to know, very good to know.  Nice to see Arthur stepping up in this world.  He’s not going to go anywhere snared in his mother’s apron strings, that’s for sure.  Have to make your own way in this world if you want anyone to take you seriously and working as a waitress for a failing airline isn’t going to make that happen.  Good to see him taking the initiative.”

Not many people knew what that particular smile on John’s face meant, but those who did knew it meant unhappy things for the person at whom he was smiling.

      “Yes… Arthur’s been helpful in a lot of areas.  I can say for a fact that he’s had my back a couple of times.  Sam’s too… versatile lad, your Arthur.  Good man to have around, especially when you need something done and done right.  Greg knows something about that, too.  Arthur definitely took an active role in some of his dealings, as well.”

John winked at Arthur who turned to walk and get more apple juice so nobody had to see him blush again.  It was… strange… hearing good things about himself, even after he’d heard lots of them from Doctor Watson and the others.  It wasn’t something he’d always had in his life, but now he heard good things a lot and it helped make some of the bad things he’d heard… feel less bad.

Gordon wasn’t sure how to reply to that because nobody _ever_ had anything good to say about Arthur.  Besides Carolyn, but she was his mother so that was to be expected.  He was just preparing to ferret what he could out of John when the sound of the front door opening alerted everyone that the last party guest had arrived.

      “And there’s Mycroft now.  I know you’ve been waiting to see him, Gordon, old pal.  Glad you didn’t have to wait very long.”

Sam just hoped the ‘you’re going to get it now you rat fuck son of a bitch’ didn’t come through too clearly in his voice.  And when Mycroft walked into the room, the oldest Holmes knew the fun was just starting.  _That_ wasn’t the bland, bureaucrat’s suit little brother wore out of the house this morning…

__________

Mycroft looked through his in-office wardrobe and chose a suit that perfectly matched the face he wanted to present for their gathering.  Predatory.  Absolutely, devastatingly in control and hungry for prey.  How fortuitous that Gordon Shappey saw fit to join them in London so he wouldn’t have to waste any precious time or resources tracking the beastly man down for the thrashing he deserved.

Looking fondly at his briefcase and the thrashing material it contained, the newly-engaged Holmes brother hummed happily and rang for his car, in which he used the provided mirror to check his appearance as he was dropped in front of his home.  It was in no small part because he had come to check his appearance every time he returned home so that he looked his nicest for his Gregory.  It was a silly thing, perhaps, because his partner… fiancé… would love him regardless of his grooming.  If there was one truth on which his personal faith could be built upon it was that his Gregory’s love was unconditional.  It had been tested in the foulest of fires and remained unscathed, a fact he would never forget.  A slight bit of primping to provide his beloved with his proverbial best side was absolutely the smallest of payments for such devotion.

Walking with a spring in his step, Mycroft entered his house and quickly made his way towards the sitting room, admiring the truly splendid timing on his part.  Already the tableau was that of a sheep sitting amongst the wolves and… Sherrinford had done quite the job of costuming for their performance.  Such a range of personas, all linked by the scent of extreme quantities of disposable income and… oh… oh, Sherrinford would pay dearly for _this_ …

Mycroft stared at Lestrade and was very happy he had his coat and briefcase to hold in front of him because not even his incomparable force of will was preventing his body’s response.  His Gregory with exquisite grey trousers and a full-cut black shirt that made… oh, the picture, more a painting, with his stunning hair.  Which was full and slightly unruly, possessing the most brazen strands that stood up straight to command attention.  Though he had been most attentive to his fiancé’s grooming, ensuring a freshly-shaved face each morning, the rakish stubble gracing his lover’s chiseled jaw was indescribably exciting and might need to be a more frequent visitor to their home… and of course his dear Detective Inspector was smiling his wickedest of smiles…

      “Hello, Mycroft.  Glad you’re home.”

Oh, Gregory… do pack away that salacious grin or we shall learn very shortly if ravishment with an audience is something we enjoy.

      “And hello to you, my dear.  I trust you enjoyed a pleasurable day.”

Regardless, I shall compensate you with an extremely pleasurable night to the limits of your physical capabilities, you unrepentant minx.  For now, accept a simple kiss that… simple does not mean letting me savor the feel of your tongue, Gregory Lestrade… that serves as my promise of greater debauchment to come.

      “I did, love.  And now we have a guest to top off the day.”

A guest who, apparently, was just understanding who this scintillating god among men truly was in their household.  And how delightful… he looked positively scandalized.  And avaricious.  Splendid tools with which to work.

      “Ah, Mr. Shappey.  We are delighted to have you in our home.”

Mycroft stood next to Lestrade and ran a hand down his cheek before settling it on the Detective Inspector’s shoulder.  Gordon’s eyes followed every second of the motion and hoped he wasn’t showing any of his confusion and… disgust… on his face.  Mycroft Holmes a poof?  That was unbelievable!  From what he’d heard the man was one of the most formidable movers and shakers in the country and he was buggerer?  No wonder this marriage had his blessing.  Well, he’d dealt with this sort before and their money was as good as anyone else’s… and this one had more money than most.  

      “I… yes.  Yes, thank you.  It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Holmes.  Heard a lot about you.  All good, of course, all good…”

      “Really?  Then you should cultivate a more fruitful well of information.  However, that is beside the point, since we are here to celebrate, are we not?  Our dear Arthur and Martin’s wedding… I could not be more pleased, a feeling I am certain you share fully.”

      “Oh, certainly.  Not often a man sees his son getting married, especially to a… _fine_ young man like Martin over there.  Credit to the family, I’m sure.”

      “Most assuredly.  Martin has ever been a valued member of our clan and we are positively thrilled to add Arthur to our ranks, as well.  Aren’t we Sherlock?”

Gordon gaped at the man to his right and felt pieces start to fall into place.

      “It would take little to improve the health of our family tree, however, Arthur is an especially acceptable source of fertilizer.”

Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes… that’s where he’d heard the name before!  That detective fellow and, yes… John Watson.  The assistant… interesting, but not exactly anyone to further his own interests.  The detective could be useful though, and he was yet another member of Mycroft’s family who, somehow, Arthur had formed a connection with.  Apparently, his son was some form of Holmes catnip.  At this rate, this marriage travesty might even rate a wedding gift from him.

      “Colorfully put, Sherlock, though accurate.  Samuel?”

Gordon’s head whipped the other way and Martin hoped the evil git got whiplash, though not quickly because it was highly entertaining to watch Gordon being a toady.  A cherished memory to warm his heart on cold winter nights.

      “They don’t make ‘em like Arthur very often and the world’s a hell of a lot poorer for it.  Kid’s got a backbone of steel and heart of gold.  I’m gonna start calling him Iron Man.”

      “You… _you_ are a Holmes?”

      “American division.  But the same flavor of yippee and yeehah as the rest of the crew.”

      “I see.  It’s… it’s nice to meet so many of my future relations-by-marriage at once.”

Though this one had a streak of something in him that said ‘nice’ wasn’t a good descriptor.  That wasn’t a problem, though.  The more powerful the man, the darker the color of nasty in his blood.  This one was a man to keep in front of you, never let get behind your back, no matter how big was his grin.

      “When Arthur informed me of your presence in London, I simply couldn’t resist alerting Sherlock and Samuel.  The opportunity was simply too tempting.  A joyful gathering of family and friends, a circle to which we are most happy to add another link.  You will accept our offer, will you not, Gordon, if it is not presumptuous of me to use your given name?  Be a link in our little chain?”

Arthur looked around at the smiles in the room and began to suspect that something might be going on that was a bit sneaky.  Even Douglas and Skip were smiling and they really didn’t like Dad at all…

      “I’d be honored.  Family has to stick together, right?  Blood thicker than water and all that.”

Mycroft cut his eyes towards Sam who couldn’t hold back his smirk.  Neither could resist a head being handed to them on a silver platter.

      “Excellent!  And that, I believe deserves a touch of something special.  I do have many fine libations on hand, however, I find myself depleted of your Arthur’s very favorite.  Martin?  Would you and Arthur do me the favor of making a small trip to that lovely spirits purveyor that Samuel favors?  I believe he has a few bottles of Arthur’s favorite sherry secreted away for special customers and would be happy to part with one or two for our use.”

Those bottles having been delivered a good half-hour ago, just for the occasion.

      “Umm… ok.  Arthur, you up for a little shopping trip?”

      “BRI… that would be nice Skip, thank you.”

      “Go ahead and use my card, Arthur.  Little present to everyone from dear old Uncle Sam.  And that can that be taken in a lot of ways, Gordon, old pal.  So scoot, you two.  We’ll keep Gordo here company while you’re gone.”

Now Skip was smiling very brightly and Skip didn’t smile very brightly when it was about Doctor Sam.  Or Dad.  There was definitely something sneaky going on, but since he wasn’t the best at figuring out sneaky things, he’d wait until someone told him what they were being sneaky about because Brick Steel just didn’t ask questions like that of people, no matter how much he wanted to know the answer.

      “Good.  Is there a car waiting?”

      “Of course, and if there is any other little errand that strikes your fancy, do indulge yourselves.”

Arthur stepped forward and stood next to Martin, looking into his eyes and verifying for himself the presence of sneakiness.

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  Come on, Skip.  I think I would very much like a bit of sherry.  And perhaps, a little chat.”

Arthur took Martin by the hand and led him out of the room, leaving the remaining men alone in the sitting room, all of whom who were looking at Gordon as if he was a particularly well-prepared piece of steak.  And the steak chose that moment to break the silence.

      “So… now that the… happy couple… is gone, the adults can have their own chat, right?”

When Mycroft Holmes chuckled it never boded well for the recipient, unless they were family, which Gordon Shappey most assuredly was not.

      “Oh Gordon, it was very nice knowing you.  No, wait, I got that wrong way around.  It was horrible knowing you.  But not as horrible as what these chaps have in store for you, I suspect.”

Gordon glared at Douglas, but suddenly realized the number of eyes on him and felt a prickle of worry run up his spine.

      “I think you’re right about that, Douglas.  Mycroft laughed.  Mycroft _never_ laughs.”

Lestrade let his lie sink into Gordon’s brain and hoped _he_ didn’t start laughing at the face John was making at him for being such a bastard.

      “True dat.  The last time I heard Mycroft laugh was… well, that’s not something to talk about in polite company.  And there was no way I was cleaning my shirt afterwards.  Damn thing had to hit the garbage can and that’s _another_ thing he owes me for.”

Gordon studied the tall American and that prickle of worry began to grow.

      “Now, now, Samuel… I did replace your shirt, and your trousers, I believe, after your last skirmish at my behest.  It was a frightful thing, Mr. Shappey, but Samuel is not one to shy away from frightful things.  Perhaps dear Gordon would like a peek?  Would you, Samuel, old friend?”

Sam smiled a smile John had never seen before and hoped he didn’t again.  Unless Sherlock copied it.  In the bedroom.

      “My pleasure.”

Sam lifted his shirt and made sure Gordon got a good view of his knife wound, chuckling himself at the very audible gulp he received from their guest.

      “You see, Mr. Shappey, a man in my position must often confront unpleasant situations and cannot shy away from doing what is necessary for their resolution.  Fortunately, I have people in whom I have complete trust to assist in doing what must be done.  My dear?  Another demonstration, I believe is in order.”

Lestrade gave an inner whoop of excitement.  Once he caught onto the theme of the conversation, he was hoping Mycroft would include him in the fun…  and his slow, almost seductive unbuttoning of his shirt to reveal his own bit of body art, which Mycroft trailed his fingers over gently as a crowning touch, made Gordon turn bleached-bone white.

      “John has not been called to serve in some time, but he has been a valiant soldier when the need has arisen.”

John now understood why his shirt had a wide, loose collar, because it was an easy thing to draw it down to reveal his long-healed, but still impressive, scar.  How Sam had anticipated this particular tactic on Mycroft’s part he had no idea, but it was certainly was enjoyable…

      “So you see, Mr. Shappey… we are not men who allow an unpleasant situation to remain such if it touches us in any form or fashion.  Which brings me to… you.”

Douglas settled back in his chair and devoted himself to committing each second of this to memory.  Mycroft might actually not be quite the humorless undertaker he had believed him to be.  His only regret was that Carolyn was not here to see this.  The old girl deserved a little pick-me-up now and then…

      “Arthur is dear to me, as he is to us all.  When someone perpetrates acts upon him, be they direct or indirect, intentional or through neglect, physical or verbal… we take exception to that person and find it prudent to demonstrate to them the error of their ways.  Consider this your first and only lesson.  If it is not learned and learned well, the repercussions will not be to your liking.”

Sherlock normally despised his brother’s attempts at drama, but had to admit it was effective at times.  This being one of them.  Arthur’s poor excuse for a father looked ready to bolt for the door.  If he knew of what Mycroft was truly capable, he would have never set foot across the threshold.

      “I… I don’t understand.  Arthur is my son…”

      “Something which you find shameful and that is certainly not to your credit.  Arthur is a rare person, one who is truly good and it is to the betterment of any who come to know him.  You are the antithesis of that and it is my _regret_ that I have come to know you and that cannot be changed at this point.  I can, however, ensure that you are less offensive to me and, more importantly, to Arthur from this moment onward.  John, if you would pass to me my briefcase?”

Mycroft took a moment to button Lestrade’s shirt and share with him a heated look that promised very lascivious things for later in the night.  Lestrade bit his lower lip gently, both to inflame his lover further, but also to help hold back the moan because there was a happily familiar, yet unknown of late, curl of fire in his lower belly that he desperately wanted to explore as soon as they possibly could.

      “Ah, thank you, John.  Douglas, would you kindly refill Mr. Shappey’s drink?  I suspect he might want something to soothe his nerves as we proceed.”

Douglas never took well to being ordered about, but this was one time he was not going to complain.  Who could _possibly_ complain about being part of this theater in the round?  And Gordon did look a little green around the gills.  One large whiskey in one slightly shaky hand, it is.

      “Thank you.  Now, what do I have here?  A list of your current business interests.  Feel free to look it over in case anything was missed.”

Gordon hesitated taking the folder that Mycroft handed him, but did it with as much calm as he could.  Which vanished completely as he read the contents.

      “I believe I prepared a thorough inventory under your given name and your, shall we say, adopted names.  I was quite impressed by the diversity of your holdings, both legal and not.  You have been, I must say, quite the busy bee.”

Sam sniggered and refilled his own drink, raising a clandestine toast to his little brother.  Damn kid did inherit a touch of flair from him, after all.

      “Now, while I appreciate the industrious acquisition of funds and the furthering of one’s sphere of influence, I do abhor one who does so in quite so odiously and, frankly, obviously a manner.  You are crass, an unconscionable boor, and those are your most winning traits.  You seek to use Arthur as a stepping stone to my level, yet cannot even successfully conceal your own illicit businesses from a laughably simple search.  For that alone, you would never win my approval.  I cannot abide sloppiness and incompetency.  However, it is your treatment of Arthur that forever closes the door on not only your entrance into my cadre of associates but, potentially, on any further expansion of your business interests.  If I am to be frank, what you currently hold is in jeopardy and it would take a simple phone call to render you penniless.”

Gordon snarled and threw the file onto the floor, showing the first actual evidence of fire in his eyes since Mycroft began speaking.

      “You can’t do that!”

      “Oh, I assure you I can.  You have no idea the length of my reach and what I cannot touch, I assure you Samuel can affect for me.  And, do not forget my dearest Gregory.  When he is not recovering from his favors to me, he is a well-respected Detective Inspector in our very diligent law enforcement system.  Notice the stack of additional folders in my valise?  I assure you that if I reveal their contents to him, he will feel duty-bound to act upon it and that will not be to your benefit.”

And weren’t Douglas’s fingers itching to take those files for a small personal stroll.  He always suspected Gordon was a villain, but he’d love to know just how villainous the man actually was.  Though, given it was _Gordon_ , it was probably a sad, disappointing villainy that would make a James Bond antagonist shake his head in pity.  However, the elder Shappey _was_ looking quite distressed at the thought of the hand of the law coming to rest upon his shoulders…

      “What do you want?”

Gordon spat out the words and wished he could throw out something more scathing, but every fiber of his being screamed that what he would suffer for the rebellion wouldn’t be quick to heal.

      “Ah, now that is something I do admire; someone who quickly assesses a situation and cuts directly to the path most likely to lead to a swift and successful conclusion.  I shall consider that a point in your favor.  As to what I want, it is quite simple.  You shall remedy your appalling treatment of your son and do it to my satisfaction.  I care not whether you truly accept him into your heart, but you will not allow him to know that your love for him flickers with only the weakest flame.  You associate with him rarely, I understand, so this should not be unduly difficult for you, but the times that you are in communication with Arthur, you will not degrade, humiliate, disparage or, in any manner, bring him distress.  And, by extension, you shall engage in the same playacting with Martin.  You do not approve of their union, but you _will_ acknowledge it and demonstrate support.  You shall not speak a word against their marriage or affection, even if you do not openly praise their choice.  For reasons I cannot fathom, Arthur holds out hope that you will view him positively and craft with him a more paternal role for yourself, but I know that is not a possible thing.”

Mycroft took a moment to take a sip from Lestrade’s glass, nodding his approval as the tart taste of juice hit his tongue.

      “You will, however, make… gestures… that allow him to believe your feelings for him have warmed, at least to some degree.  The card or gift for appropriate holidays and events, inquiring about his and Martin’s welfare when you converse via telephone or in person, laying aside your natural inclination towards insult and diminishment…  small things that will mean the world to him and that is the only matter about which I am concerned.  You stated that blood is thicker than water but, as for most who use the phrase, you misrepresent its meaning.  The full quote reads ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.’  The bonds we form through choice are stronger than those arbitrarily imposed upon us by birth and, I assure you, the bond we have chosen to form with Arthur is a very potent one, indeed.  He is dear to me and I protect those who I hold dear with every resource I possess.  I shall gladly and without hesitation destroy you utterly for any cruelty he experiences at your hand and if a more physical reprimand is required for your failure to learn the lesson you have been taught, I promise you that it shall arrive with a thunderous visitation.  And I am not the only person in this room who might want a hand in the chastisement.”

Sherlock slid slightly closer to Gordon and smirked as the older man jumped at the proximity.

      “Now, I believe it is to everyone’s benefit if you leave before Arthur and Martin return.  I shall make your apologies and shall look forward to Arthur providing me the details of your lovely visit that you describe in the phone call you make to him before you leave London.  There is a car waiting to take you wherever you might wish to go.  Do have a good evening, Mr. Shappey.  I look forward to seeing you at the wedding.”

Lestrade wouldn’t call what Gordon did running, but hasty walking wasn’t a bad description and in a few moments, the room exploded into laughter and a bit of dancing from Sam and John.

      “That, little brother, was truly exceptional.  I’d take my hat off to you, if I had a hat.”

      “I concur, Sherry.  I really didn’t think you had it in you, Charlemagne, but that was a performance for which I might have actually paid admission.”

Mycroft permitted himself a small, satisfied smile and poured a celebratory libation for himself.

      “I simply hope the man has a sufficiently-developed sense of self-preservation to take this evening to heart.”

      “If there is one attribute I’ve come to associate with Gordon Shappey, through more soul-deadening encounters than I care to remember, it is self-preservation.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do anything that was not a grab for his own gain.”

Mycroft took Gordon’s vacated seat on the sofa and hoped Douglas’s assessment was correct.  He would hate to leave Arthur fatherless.  Especially before the wedding.  Before he could voice that opinion, however, the front door opened again and Arthur’s jubilant ‘we’re home!’ sounded through the entire house.

      “And we’ve got sherry!  And a bottle of something that tastes like chocolate.  I got to have a little sip to try it and it tastes _very_ good.  But… where’s Dad?”

Arthur’s smile faded a little and John jumped in to reignite the blaze.

      “Your Dad got a call about some business… business… and he had to leave.  Told us to say he was sorry he couldn’t say goodbye, but that he’d call you before he left the city.”

      “Oh, well that’s ok, then.  Dad takes his business very seriously.  But… I do think something sneaky was going on and, well, Skip wouldn’t say, but he wouldn’t say in a way that sort of _did_ say and… no one was mean to dad were they?  I know he can be a little AARRRGGHHH, but he’s still my Dad and… and I don’t want anyone to be mean to him.”

No, no one was in any way ‘mean’ to Gordon.  That would have been the height of rudeness and Mycroft Holmes was certainly not rude.  Unless it was royally deserved, of course…

      “Perish the thought, Arthur.”

      “Nope, kid.  Not a bit of meanness in this entire posse.”

      “Gordon was treated most decorously.  Your mother would be highly displeased.”

      “Everything went fine, Arthur.  See?  Not a bit winded and when I’m being mean I tend to shout a lot and get out of breath at the best of times, which having holes in your chest certainly is _not_.”

      “Listen to Greg, Arthur.  Everyone was on their best behavior, even Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s snort at John’s teasing made Arthur giggle, but he kept his eyes on the detective until Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his curls.

      “Your worries are unfounded.  Mycroft and your father discussed some dreary topics concerning economics and some details of the current status of your wedding preparations were shared.  There was time for little else.”

      “Well, alright then.  I’m glad Dad had a nice time.  Maybe we can have him visit again so he can stay longer and really get to know everyone.  That would be ok, right?”

Mycroft smiled gently and motioned for Arthur to pour his much-anticipated sherry.

      “That would be a very welcome thing, indeed.  I would treasure the opportunity to speak again to your father on the matters we discussed.  I found him a very clear-thinking man, with a firm understanding of the basic principles of negotiation.”

Such as never bring a knife to a gunfight.  Oh good lord, now he was sounding like Sherrinford.  Gregory’s glory was definitely debilitating his ability to think clearly.

      “Brilliant!  I’ll mention that when he calls.”

      “By all means do.  I am certain he will be gladdened by the news.”

__________

The rest of the evening was spent in conversation on pleasant topics, though, evening was applied loosely in this case, since Lestrade needed to be returned to his bed and Sam was getting slightly tottery on his feet.  With Arthur pacified and content to watch a film with Martin, Douglas, John and Sherlock, Sam bid his goodnights and snatched an unopened bottle of something potent to share his bed, but spared an arm to help Mycroft maneuver Lestrade back to his room.  Before Sam left, Mycroft decided that something needed to be said, no matter the pain involved.

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  Your help was critical in tonight’s initiative and I do not believe it would have been as successful without your input.”

      “You’re welcome, Skinny.  Anything to lend a hand.  Now, you two have a good night.  I’ve already started shopping for Greg’s trousseau online, you know, so you’ll be ready for that wedding night of yours.  Black, silky… don’t worry, I got this covered.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but then the mental image of his partner in black silk undergarments made him reconsider his scorn.

      “Yeah, I knew you’d be happy.  ‘night folks.  See you in the morning.”

Sam cradled his liquid baby and made his way slowly out of the bedroom.

      “You told Sam?”

Mycroft turned to face his puzzled partner and took the opportunity to caress his stubble-roughened cheek.

      “He deduced it himself.  However, Sherrinford is content to be party to our secret until we see fit to announce our intentions.”

      “I should have known.  You can’t really keep anything from him, can you?”

      “It appears so.”

Mycroft took a moment to loosen his tie and took a seat next to Lestrade who was still feeling a decided lack of pain and enjoying every minute of it.

      “That’s ok… it’s good to have someone in your life you can’t hide from.  Not that I can imagine anyone wanting to hide from you.  Do you know how hot you made me strolling in wearing that… suit isn’t even the right word for it?  That’s a big sign that says you’re the most powerful man in the room and only someone very lucky is going to see you without that sign hiding all the choicest bits.  And when you started cutting pieces off that fucking troll… I wanted you right then and there.”

      “Very forward of you, Mr. Lestrade.  Do you feel you are, as you say, lucky enough to view what lies beneath this layer of cloth?”

      “I think I’m the luckiest man in the world, if you want the truth, because I _am_ going to view what’s beneath that cloth and touch it and lick it and I’m going to have the most gorgeous man alive doing the same to me.  And you want to, don’t you?”

      “With everything in me.  Do you have any idea how… feral you appear this evening, Gregory?  Primally sexual and utterly enthralling.  It was a herculean effort to turn the tide of my arousal and focus on the task at hand.”

      “Speaking of arousal…”

      “Please do.”

      “I think we might be able to have a little extra fun tonight.  Especially with these magic pain pills Sam gave me.”

      “I shall not compromise your health, Gregory.”

      “I know you won’t, but… let’s just say a little extra effort on your part might win us both a special something.”

      “Are you… is your…”

      “No, he’s not ready to play just yet, but… I talked to Sam and with the right frame of mind, a little extra attention to other sensitive spots, bit of kissing and touching… you don’t need a hard on to enjoy yourself.  And I mean the whole shout the name of the man you love and see stars type of enjoying yourself.”

      “Really… I actually did not know that.”

      “Now you do.  And I think tonight I’m in exactly the right frame of mind, too, since I don’t have a lot of pain to worry about.  Care to give it a go”

      "Most certainly.  Your pleasure is my honor to provide.”

      “Then let’s get you out of that sexy suit so I can touch that sexy skin instead.”

      “Gladly.  And Gregory…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Would you be amenable to again using your mouth?”

      “Try and stop me.”

      “Not in a thousand years.”


	15. Chapter 15

What Lestrade wouldn’t give for one really good stretch.  The kind that ran from the tip of your big toe all the way up to the top of your head and every muscle got its chance to feel that special recharging that only a long, hard stretching could give.  And the best stretches, the very best, were the ones that came after you woke up after a night of great sex and it was almost like the stretch helped those muscles remember what they got to feel before they drifted off to sleep.  At least he’d gotten the sex if he couldn’t have the stretch.  Not that he’d thank Sam for the little lesson in, as the bastard called it, ‘how guys with a wobbly willy can have a good time,’ but when he had the chance, he’d order the tosser a box of good cigars or something.  And Mycroft had no problem expending the extra effort and energy to show his new fiancé that good time.  In fact, there was little doubt he loved it since Mycroft adored taking control and playing his body like a fine violin, which he certainly did last night.  Even when all of his parts were back in working order, Lestrade had a suspicion that his lover was going to indulge in the slower, more sensual methods they’d used more often that one might expect.

Now, if he could find a way to get rid of the nearly paralyzing ache that was making it hard to breathe, his wonderful little stretch might at least be partially possible. Once Mycroft was gone, he’d get John or Sam to slip him something, because it was fairly clear that last night’s playacting had taken it out of him.  Walking to and from a chair, sitting in said chair for a fairly long time… getting sexed up was actually the most relaxing part of the night since all he had to do was lay there and soak up the sensation.  Well, that and let his lover do wonderful things to his mouth, but, again, Mycroft had to do most of the work for that.

But everything, every ache, every sting, every bit of fire burning his nerve endings to a brittle, ashy crisp was worth it.  So worth it he couldn’t keep a smile off his face if he tried, because they’d given Arthur’s dad the best what for in the history of what for-ing.  And his Frankenstein chest actually came in handy!  Poor bastard nearly went green and wasn’t that a joy to see.  There you go, Gordon you fucking misery… your son’s surrounded by people who’ve met worse than you and come out on top every time.  Fuck you and once again for good measure.  Took two bullets and I can still kick your arse to France if I have to…

      “My dear?”

      “What?”

      “Might I ask why you are thinking about France?”

      “Was I talking to myself?”

      “More of a chuckle chuckle France chuckle chuckle.”

Lestrade laughed as heartily as his chest would allow and patted his shoulder for Mycroft to move closer.

      “Actually I was thinking of Arthur’s dad and booting his pitiful self right across the Channel.”

      “A very worthy endeavor.  Let us hope that particular tactic shall not be necessary until you are better able to muster the necessary force of kick.”

      “That might be best.  But I’ll be prepared just in case.  Have to keep up my fearsome camouflage.  Can’t let Arthur have all the fun.”

      “No, such would be utterly criminal.  Though our Arthur conducted himself marvelously from what I gather.”

      “And kept me from falling out of my chair in the process. Very talented lad.”

      “Should I inquire as to the dosage of your medication for last night’s drama?”

      “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you.  Sam just said it would kill the pain, keep me lucid, but not to expect another go because I wasn’t worth that much of his ‘good stuff.’”

Or, Sherrinford was well aware that the concoction was not healthy for prolonged use, and, perhaps… perhaps because it was not wise to mask the cautioning effects of pain for any substantial duration…

      “Gregory… how do you feel at the moment?”

      “Fantastic.”

      “If only you could lie fantastically, I might be inclined to believe you.”

      “Slightly less than fantastically.”

      “Could you provide a more specific quantification?”

      “Actually no, because I never really understood that 1 – 10 thing or the chart with all the grimacy faces.”

      “Can we agree that this is a situation of some seriousness and candor on your part would be greatly appreciated?”

Lestrade smiled and reached over with his foot to rub Mycroft’s own.

      “I hurt, but I knew that I would.  Sam and I talked about that and I could have said no and stayed in bed all night.  And, did you notice your brother checking his watch now and then?  I was on a time limit, love.  If Arthur’s dad was going to be around for a long while, Sam would probably have steered you and Gordon off to your study or something and gotten me out of there.  He had a plan, I think, for how the evening would go, but if it didn’t… he was pulling me out before I had a _very_ bad day today.  I know you’re not ready to trust Sam, Mycroft, but you should trust _me_.  I plan on being with you a long time and I’d like that time to be as pain-free as possible.”

      “There is no one I trust more than you, my dear… but I shall continue to worry about your health, regardless.”

      “And I’m glad for it.  So, to be a little less cheeky about things… it feels like my chest is on fire all the way down to the bone and that’s making breathing uncomfortable, but it’s only going to last until I take my pain pill.  I wasn’t going to say anything until after you left so you wouldn’t worry…”

      “Which is not a strategy I am likely to endorse.  Please do not conceal your pain, Gregory.  I would know when you are suffering, so that I may, at the very least, not take action to worsen it.”

      “You were planning a little morning cuddle, weren’t you?”

      “Gregory Lestrade!  You are insatiable.”

      “I don’t have any choice!  You’re a sexy beast, in my bed and don’t think I’m in so much pain I can’t tell when there’s a hard on pressed against my leg.”

      “Normal morning biology, my dear, nothing more.”

      “Remember the first time I got to feel your normal morning biology?  That was a grand thing.  Your long body in green silk, holding on for dear life like you were afraid I was going to run away in the middle of the night.”

      “At that point, I was not certain that might not be the case.  I would not have been at all surprised if you came to your senses and prepared a pallet on the floor so you did not have to suffer further my presence.”

      “Nah, I liked your presence.  I thought… no, I _knew_ , that was something important to me.  Walking in there and seeing you in bed, just as comfortable as you could be with your book and your pyjamas.  It wasn’t awkward or weird it was… it was like we’d been doing that awhile and it was a normal thing.  The whole party, those weeks before… I knew there something going on and I could see the edges, the outline of what we could have if that, whatever it was, would get the fuck out of the way and let us have it!  I was going crazy, I was frustrated and had no idea what the big monster in the closet was, but I knew that if it could be given the boot we could have those pyjamas-in-bed times.  And it would be wonderful, just like it was that night.”

      “And this morning.”

      “Exactly.  Me and you keeping each other company in the nicest possible way.  And it won’t be long before it won’t be this horrible hospital bed, either.  I am absolutely staying on my timetable to get out of this thing and into something more comfortable.”

      “Then, I shall do my utmost to support you in achieving that goal.”

      “Does support mean you’ll get me a hot cup of coffee?”

      “Support means I shall provide you a cup of water to ease the swallowing of your pain medication and then, perhaps, a warm beverage to start your morning.”

      “That’s more than fair.  I’ll even shave myself today, so you don’t have the bother.”

Mycroft ran his fingers across the stubble and reminded himself that if he continued to indulge, his morning biology would become far more demanding and it would not do, not do at all, to overstress his already compromised lover.

      “Nonsense.  I very much enjoy our little morning routine.  It is a bright spot on which I can look back upon no matter the severity of the remainder of my day.  I have found that the small things that we are beginning ritualize have an importance I would not have believed possible, but I cannot deny that is the case.”

Just as he could not have believed the surge his libido had experienced since he had finally taken his lover as his own.  Last night had been a prolonged, inexpressibly pleasurable interlude and he would have no objections to repeating it if his Gregory was not so pained.  But they had time.  A life’s worth of time to fill with such delights.

      “I agree.  And I love it.  You too, just so you know.”

      “And I love you, my dear.  Now, shall I provide you with your medication?”

      “Yeah, I think it’s time.”

      “Then let us take care of that issue and make a start on our day.  I am not certain as to the various agendas, but I have little doubt they shall be busy ones.”

      “I’m sure you’re right.  I wish I could be a part of them.”

This was the very first shadow Mycroft had seen on his partner’s face today and he vowed it would not grow into a true darkness.

      “Little steps, Gregory.  Already you have taken so very many and there are countless yet to come.”

      “I know… if you’re back tonight at a reasonable time, can we take that outing in my wheelchair we keep hoping is going to happen?”

      “I can think of nothing I would enjoy more.”

Mycroft kissed his lover gently and carefully got out of bed, carrying Lestrade’s glass fill with water.  A small stroll this evening would be a wildly enjoyable thing.  The little things… each one a pearl on a string that wound on for eternity…

__________

      “Mycroft!  You’re just in time!  Which is something you’re very good at, actually.  The coffee is nice and fresh and I expect Greg is ready for his tiny cup.”

      “I think today we might be bold and allow him a touch more than his standard allotment.  He deserves a treat, I believe.”

      “Oh, he does… Greg was brilliant last night!  I’ll have to think of a name for him when he’s being fierce, like I have when I have to be Brick Steel.  Not that he was actually fierce last night, more… well, I’m not sure exactly how I’d describe him, but he did it brilliantly!”

The word Arthur was looking for was breathtaking, but that information would not be shared.

      “That he did.  And what are your plans today, Arthur?  Shall you continue your wedding preparations?”

      “I have to talk to Skip, but that’s what I hope we do.  We don’t have much time before Mum comes home, so I’d like to get as much done while we’re here because then I have to get moved Skip’s for-now little house and then we’ll be flying again… I’m a little flibbity-wibbity at the moment, actually, but that’s alright.  I’d rather be flibbity-wibbity and marrying Skip than not be flibbity-wibbity and _not_ marrying Skip.”

      “It _is_ a tumultuous time for you, but I full confidence you shall navigate the waters very successfully.  However, if you delegate some responsibilities today, perhaps your own burden would be lessened.  In fact… Gregory is feeling rather unproductive and would likely welcome some avenue to make a contribution to your plans.”

      “Yes!  I’ll think of something he can do!  Skip has my list and I’ll find something that’s perfect for him.  Thanks, Mycroft!  You always have brilliant ideas.”

      “Just don’t ask him about harpsichords.”

      “Mycroft, why shouldn’t I ask you about harpsichords?”

Sam shuffled into the kitchen waving off Mycroft’s irritated glare and feeling the weight of both a painful side and a painful head.  It wasn’t often he overindulged, but when he did his body made certain he paid a hefty price.

      “Pay Sherrinford no heed, Arthur.  He is simply trying to turn attention away from his physical condition brought on, if I am not mistaken, by over-consumption of my fine spirits.  I believe he would benefit greatly from a compassionate conversation on the detriments of excess.”

Now it was Sam glaring at his younger brother who smiled pleasantly as he escorted Lestrade’s coffee out of the kitchen.

      “Doctor Sam, you have a bit of a hangover, don’t you?”

      “A small one.  Like a teeny tiny ant crawling on a piece of Twinkie.”

      “Ants can be very upsetting, Doctor Sam.  They’ve gotten into my underpants three times now, so I know first-hand how they can take a very nice day and turn it into something decidedly not brilliant.”

Part of Sam desperately wanted to follow up on that story, but the bigger part of him wanted to wash away the flavor of a full bottle and an lonely bed with some of Arthur’s combat-ready coffee, so that took point on his agenda.

      “Then how about we keep this a very nice day and talk about something happy instead.  Like your wedding!”

      “WEDDING!  Oh… I see what you did there.  Ah ha!  It’s not going to work, Doctor Sam.  I’m getting better at knowing when someone is trying to spin me in a circle and that was a _very_ big circle you were trying to twirl me through so it was especially obvious.”

      “Curses!  Foiled again.”

      “And I do think we should have a little chat, but I know you have a very busy day today, just like I do, so I suppose we can wait until tomorrow.  But, I’m not going to forget!  In fact, I’m going to make a note as soon as I find my pen with the different colored inks, because I want this note to be in red ink so I remember it’s an important note.”

      “Very smart of you.  And I do have a lot on my plate today.  Finding housing in this friggin’ city is like finding veal at a vegan restaurant.”

      “Doctor Sam, I don’t know if you’ve really looked around London but… there are a lot of flats.”

      “You’re right.  And as long as your last name’s Rockefeller, you’ve got no problem getting one.  Want to know my rent for my last one?”

Arthur nodded, Sam told him and Arthur stopped nodding.

      “Really?”

      “Yep.”

      “That’s rather a lot.”

      “Rather.”

      “And it wasn’t even that nice a flat.  Not that I’m trying to be mean, because I’m not and it _was_ lots better than Skip’s but… but not _that_ much better.”

      “Welcome to London, Arthur!  But, I know a few tricks, so we’ll see how it goes.  If I can’t shake anything loose, I’ll put Sherlock on the scent.  He’ll hate that, so I’ll get some fun out of the whole thing, even if I don’t get an apartment.”

      “You could ask Mycroft, you know.”

Arthur began to worry after Sam strangling himself lasted more than a few seconds and took the step of tapping the doctor on the head to see if there was any response.

      “No.”

      “That’s more than a bit stubborn, Doctor Sam.”

      “Yep, but I’m not changing my mind.  Skinny has more to worry about now than finding me a shotgun shack.  Don’t worry – I got this.  Besides, Douglas said he’d give me a hand, and you should know better than I do how well Dougie can get what he wants.”

      “Brilliant!  Douglas is very good at getting what he wants, even when nobody else wants him to get whatever it _is_ he wants.  I forgot he was going to help.”

      “And don’t you spend your day with Martin trying to find me a place to live.  Go off and do your wedding stuff and I’ll handle things on this end.”

      “We do have a lot to do.  And Skip seemed to get tired yesterday, so I’m going to really try and squeeze everything in early, so we can have the rest of the day to do things that don’t make him tired.  Like visit another museum or shop for new outfits for our bears.”

      “That sounds great.  If I give you a dollar or two, can you pick up a little coat for mine?  It’s getting cold and little Sammy’s only got his lab coat to keep warm.”

      “Yes!  We’ll find him a very nice warm coat.  And a jumper.  Maybe a few jumpers in different colors.  Skip and I will definitely find nice things for Sammy.  He’ll be cozy and look quite smart, too.”

      “Perfect.  I knew I could count on you.  Now, how about I help you with breakfast, so we can get this house up and at ‘em?”

      “You really shouldn’t be doing very much, Doctor Sam.  I don’t think your side has healed and you have a headache, also.”

      “Well, the headache is my fault, so that doesn’t count and I haven’t busted any of my stitches, so moving around isn’t a problem.  Besides, how can I show you how to make biscuits if I don’t stand up?”

      “Biscuits for breakfast!  Brilliant!  But, I already know how to make biscuits.  Sometimes I make all sorts of biscuits and close my eyes and grab whatever my fingers land on to make a surprise package for Skip.  And, let me tell you, he’s often very surprised!”

      “Not cookies, Arthur, good ol’ American biscuits.  Fat and fluffy and fuc… danged amazing slathered with butter and jelly.  Or stuffed with some really good sausage.  Oooh… and gravy.  A good cream gravy with lots of sausage bits… ok, get your ass going and make room for me.  I’ve been inspired.”

      “Hurray!  That is the best feeling in the world, isn’t it?”

      “None better.  Well, there is one, but you don’t have the right parts and you’re practically family, so that’s out.”

      “Dancing?”

      “Right on the nose.”

__________

After a breakfast that Sherlock pronounced abysmal, he and John left for Baker Street to take care of home matters, Sam and Douglas took over Mycroft’s study and Martin waited patiently for Arthur to pull together his shopping lists, measure their bears, say goodbye to Douglas and Sam and then have a moment with Greg for a last –minute check of whatever it was Arthur felt it was necessary to check.  Though, from the look of it, Arthur’s little once-over wasn’t exactly unwarranted.  Greg looked exhausted, drawn and that smile wasn’t nearly the wide and easy thing the man usually wore.  And Arthur knew it, too.

      “Oh Greg!  You look terrible!”

      “Nice of you to say, Arthur.  Lucky that you look amazing enough for the both of us.”

      “Thanks!  Skip and I are going shopping and we’re going to be visiting lots of very nice shops so we need to look a bit posh.”

      “Mission accomplished, I’d say.  Now, shouldn’t you be going?  I’ve got very important walls to stare at and belly hair to count so, my day’s planned.  No use you wasting time here with me.”

      “Well, that does sound brilliant, especially the wall-staring part because I’ve done that and you sort of fall into a little trance and the day just flies by, but I was wondering, and it’s ok if you say no, but do you think you could take a bit of time and maybe use your computer to look for types of cakes?  Doctor Watson is going to help me find the tastiest, but I’ll also need to know who has the loveliest and what you can actually do with a cake to make it the most wonderful wedding cake in the world!  There should be pictures of that, right?  Or maybe directions so that I could make it myself?”

      “Cake, huh?  I admit that I don’t normally think about what a cake looks like because it’s my mouth that likes it the most, but a wedding cake _should_ be something the eyes enjoy, I suppose.  Absolutely I can work on that today for you.  Anything to help!”

Arthur gave Lestrade his largest, happiest smile, which was partly because Greg was happy and he was always happy when other people were happy, but also because Greg _needed_ to be happy and he was always happy when he could help not-happy people become happy if they weren’t quite there yet on their own.

      “Brilliant!  You can make a folder of links or print out pictures or whatever you’d like and we can look at them later when Skip and I are back.  I’m not certain how late that’s going to be, because we have a LOT to do, but it won’t be too late and then we can look at cakes.  And, maybe, eat cake.”

      “Talking about cake has you hungry for cake, doesn’t it Arthur.”

      “I admit that it does.” 

      “Well, I’m sure you can find all sorts of non-wedding cakes to buy and bring back with you.  Do you… where’s my wallet?”

      “It’s in the top drawer next to your socks.”

      “Good.  Why don’t you take my bank card and I can buy the cake for tonight?  Get enough for everyone, too, so we can all have a taste.”

      “Hurray!  I’ll get several so everyone can have what they like best.  Thanks, Greg!  I think I’m going to have to get a larger wallet to use when I’m in London, because I’ve got my bank card, which doesn’t have any money, but I also have yours and Mycroft’s and Doctor Sam’s and that’s making my wallet a bit fat.”

Martin and Lestrade shared a look that said if Arthur had any idea just how fat his wallet actually was right now, he’d probably be scared to touch it.

      “Maybe that’s something else you can look for today.  Hand me my laptop and I’ll get started on your project.  If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ring.  I’ll be here all day.”

      “You’re making a little joke, aren’t you?”

      “Just a slight one.  Have fun, you two.”

Martin caught his fiancé’s arm and escorted Arthur out before the steward could begin another round of discourse on just how much fun they were going to have, pausing only to place the computer on Greg’s lap.  As they left, Lestrade chuckled and marveled at how perfect the two were together.  Maybe you wouldn’t expect it, maybe you wouldn’t meet them at a party and think that they’d be the strong couple they actually were, but how many people would put him and Mycroft together at first meeting?  Mycroft with his fine manners, elegance and magnificent brain… it wouldn’t seem like they would be a good couple, but they were.  Despite everything, they _were_ a good couple and, now, an engaged couple.  What things looked like on the outside didn’t tell the whole story…

Setting aside the little surge of emotion that always seemed to rise up when he thought about his relationship, Lestrade took up the mission of finding out about wedding cakes.  Not that he had any idea what to search for except ‘wedding cakes’ which was likely going to produce a hundred million results, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t have the time to wade through all of that chaff to find the wheat.  Hopefully, at some point, somebody would remember he was here and bring him more coffee.  Or tea.  Or water.  Being an invalid was the most irritating thing in the world.  But, it _was_ better than being dead, and that was something he simply had to remember…

__________

      “London sucks.”

      “Whereas I would agree with that assessment for some things, Sherry, I do admit it has its appeal at times.”

      “When you want to choke on smog or find a little degenerate to kick in the ass, it’s a great place.”

      “My, aren’t we getting testy and only after five minutes of searching the rental listings.  This does not bode well for the remainder of our morning.”

      “I should have gone back to the States.  My house didn’t cost as much as a year’s rent for one of these shitty apartments and the damn thing had a real yard!”

      “And are you still in possession of your estate?”

      “Nah.  Sold it years ago.  It was too big for me and I do _not_ get a boner from housecleaning.”

      “Then I would suggest focusing on the task at hand and away from your lack of a tidying fetish.”

      “You’re no fun.  And I’m going to have to actually get something decent this time since I have a feeling I’m going to have to suffer an inspection from the happiest dictator in the universe and weather Skinny’s scorn if he thinks the décor isn’t up to par.  Screw him and his little dainty self.  I’m going to put a big beer poster right above the dining room table and invite him over breakfast so his whole fucking day goes right down the crapper.”

      “And again we veer away from the objective du jour.”

      “I’ve got a little problem with attention, sometimes.”

      “That is becoming painfully clear.  Now, what about that one?  I admit that London’s residential zones is not an area in which I possess my standard level of encyclopedic knowledge, however, I do believe that particular milieu is acceptable and not within fisticuffs distance of this abode.”

      “That’s important, too.  I really don’t need Mycroft coming over to slap at me every time I’ve got my stereo cranked to 11.”

      “Then shall we place this address on the hopefuls list?”

      “I guess so.  It’s got an extra room for when John is pissed at Sherlock and kicks baby bro out and another for when Greg needs a place to hide out because Mycroft’s being a ninnypants.  Shit.  I’m setting myself up as Heartbreak Hotel.  Why do I do these things?  Douglas, start keeping a gun handy in case you need to put me out of my misery.”

      “I abhor violence, Sherry, but in your case I will be happy to make an exception.”

      “You’re a pal.  And that little two-story number isn’t bad.  Not too far from the hospital, provided I can ever shake this gig and get back to my usual job.”

      “Oh, not content to continue your concierge medicine practice?”

      “Very content, provided my client wasn’t my might-as-well-be brother-in-law.  Where’s the possibility for illicit sexcapades in that scenario?  Nowhere.”

      “It _is_ rather a barren field to till.”

      “Exactly.  And there’s no weird purple-fleshed diseases or people hacking up solid chunks of yuck…”

      “Getting a bit dull?”

      “In some ways.  Not that the family drama isn’t enough to keep me interested, but… I like being a doctor.  Being a lawyer’s pretty fun, too, but the medical puzzles are harder to crack.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m on Greg duty full-time as long as necessary… not pulling out a second earlier than needed, which is actually one of my personal promises to all my lady friends, but it will be good to get back to having each day packed full of tasty surprises.”

      “Yes, I must concede some sympathy with your plight.  Though my unplanned extended holiday has been most enjoyable, there is a slight, yet tenacious, longing for some variety to my days.  Of course, my diversity of experience comes at the cost of prolonged exposure to Martin and Arthur, but one takes the good with the bad.”

      “I’ll trade you.  Skinny and Babylock for Marty and Artie.”

      “Oh dear, where did I put my newly acquired firearm?”

      “I _officially_ revoke your being fun status.”

      “Drat.  I am undone with despair.”

      “Funny, that’s what my last date said.”

__________

 Ok, this was good.  Had a job to do and it was something helpful.  Not that he had any ‘cake sense,’ but he did have some degree of ‘Arthur sense,’ so finding designs and designers that would appeal to the steward wasn’t very hard.  Oh look, this one has a zoo theme – right on the list.  That’s a wedding cake, but it looks like it’s done for a funeral – comes nowhere near the list.  The morning had passed pretty quickly and he had been delivered three different stacks of pictures and information sheets from the printer in the study, and those stacks Douglas had actually blessed, based on his familiarity with the happy couple.  With the current knock on the door, another round was obviously anxious to be added to the growing portfolio.

      “Bring them in!  More cakes for me!”

A completely unexpected head peered around the door, looking apologetic that there was no cake on offer.

      “I’m not a baker.”

      “Anderson!  How did you get in here?”

      “Through the front door.”

      “Don’t make me hit you.”

      “The strange American man let me in.  He seemed disappointed I wasn’t someone you called to… flush your pipes.”

Sometimes, Mycroft’s worries didn’t seem so far-fetched.

      “He’s got issues.  Come in.  And is that a folder I see in your hand?”

      “Two folders.  Your eyes are going.  That doesn’t bode well for your return to work.”

      “Wow, you are the most encouraging, motivating man in the world.”

      “You can’t argue with evidence.”

      “Which brings us back to the now-established-as-plural folders.  Something interesting?”

      “Not really, but there have been some new findings in one of your old cases and I thought you’d want to take a look.”

Or, rather, he’d been ordered to find an older case that had seen some movement and bring it to his DI’s attention.  Exactly from whom the order had come was a little vague, but he had a suspicion and couldn’t find it in himself to complain about the abuse of privilege.  First it was hard enough to actually picture Greg _knowing_ someone who had privilege to abuse and second, that person seemed like the type to take refusals a bit poorly and being reassigned to a one-sheep village wasn’t his idea of career advancement.

      “I would!  Which one?”

Anderson took a seat in one of the empty chairs and dropped the folders on the bed.

      “The Greene murders.”

      “It was the son, wasn’t it?  Twisty bastard.  I suspected him all along.”

      “Not quite.”

      “Great person.  Never suspected him for a minute.”

Lestrade opened the folders and began reviewing the information, asking questions and getting caught up on the details of the case.  And it surprised him how easily things came back to him.  One thing was certain – his brain hadn’t been impacted by the shooting.  Still worked as sharply as ever, thank you very much.  Still had the instincts and insight to make sense of all the data he was looking at and find patterns.

      “So, they’re going to question the daughter, right?”

      “I suspect that’s the next step.  I think it’s warranted, but I’m not the one to make that decision.”

      “I think they’ll have to.  You can’t argue with DNA.”

      “Well, you can, but…”

      “Keep your science out of my theory.”

      “Ok, I’ll pretend we’re in fairyland where silly science doesn’t exist.”

      “Perfect.  I’ll make a few calls and see what the thinking is for this and if someone’s being stubborn, I’ll do what I can to jolly them along.”

      “Jolly them along?  Did those words really just come out of your mouth?”

      “It’s like a virus.  I’ve been around Arthur too long and now I’m losing my alpha-wolf edge.”

      “Did you ever have it to begin with?”

      “The next time Sherlock’s being a bastard, don’t expect me to step in and give him a thump.”

Anderson shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

      “I actually designed a new set of ear plugs so I can slip them in when he and Doctor Watson are milling about.”

      “How well do they work?”

      “Good.  I haven’t had a chance to actually try them on their intended target yet, but I’m hoping it will be soon.  That’s a hint in case you weren’t entirely certain, what with the losing of your alpha-wolf faculties.”

      “I’m trying!  Walking around and everything.”

      “Already?”

      “Impressive, right?  Not very far or very much, but I can drag my ancient arse to the loo and back.  Anything more and I need a lot of help or my wheelchair.  But it’s a start.  I’ve still got to be careful and I get tired quickly… if I do too much it hurts like hell afterwards, but I’m better than I was.  It’s hard to remember sometimes how lucky I am.”

      “Lucky isn’t the word, Greg.  What happened to you… we’ve seen those people.  On the ground, in the morgue… we know what they look like when that happens.  They look exceptionally dead.”

      “I know!  I know… it’s just frustrating when you want to get up to make a sandwich and know you’ll be face down on the floor halfway to the kitchen.”

      “At least the floors are clean.  I imagine a little fleet of robots coming out at night and scrubbing the house while everyone sleeps.”

      “That’s not out of the question, actually.  I think I would have seen them at some point, though, because… some nights I don’t sleep very well.”

      “That’s understandable.  It can’t be easy to sleep with everything that’s going on with you.  Can you... are you allowed to talk about it?  I had the feeling there was something classified about the whole business, but it would likely do you good to talk.  Are you getting that chance?”

Lestrade gave his own little shrug and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath.

      “I am, to some extent.  I’m not alone here and these people know the story.  Maybe not every detail, but they know enough and they’re willing to talk with me when I want to.  And Mycroft encourages me to talk, never misses when I’ve got something on my mind and doesn’t let me keep it inside.”

      “That’s important.  He was involved, wasn’t he?  In how you got shot?”

The Detective Inspector narrowed his eyes and studied his companion closely.

      “Why would you say that?”

      “Because I’m not blind and I know guilt when I see it.  When we first visited you here, there were times, maybe only a few, but definitely times when something flashed in his eyes and I didn’t get my job by being completely stupid.”

      “Mycroft’s just a minor government official…”

      “Remember what I said about not being completely stupid?  That didn’t change in the three seconds since I said it.”

      “A semi-minor government official.”

      “I’m going to assume you can’t go into detail because it’s another classified thing.”

      “Do you often think in terms of government secrets?  Conspiracies?  Men in Black?”

      “When it’s warranted, yes.”

One pair of hands thrown as far into the air as they could manage accompanied Lestrade’s ‘why do I have to deal with this nonsense’ expression.

      “That you’re loony is going in your performance review.”

      “Well, since you can’t walk to a postbox to mail it, I’m not very worried.”

      “Man gets a few little holes in his body and he can forget about respect.  It vanishes like a good beer after a hard day.”

      “So, you’re saying things will be disrespectfully normal when you’re back at your desk.”

      “It sounds like it.  At least I know what to expect.”

The tangent from his main question hadn’t been lost on Anderson and he decided it wouldn’t be _that_ stressful to his friend to try and bring the conversation back on track.  It might even be helpful for his DI to know that there were people who worried and were, frankly, furious that anyone had the gall to do this to one of their own.

      “I _have_ checked, you know… there are no reports, no information, about your shooting.”

      “There wouldn’t be.”

      “There isn’t going to be an investigation, is there?”

      “No.”

      “Trial?”

      “No, again.”

      “Any justice for you, at all?”

      “Yeah… there was.”

The ugly shadow that crossed Lestrade’s face wasn’t missed by the man who made a living off of noticing details.

      “Classified?”

      “My wheelchair _will_ get me to a postbox.”

And along another detour we go.

      “Not if you can’t find it.”

      “I’m turning you over to Sam.  Really, you deserve it.”

      “Sam?”

      “The crazy American.”

      “Oh joy… I woke up this morning and said to myself ‘I need more crazy in my life.’  Thank you for making my dreams come true.”

      “My pleasure.  You’d probably get your annual prostate exam taken care of, though, so there’s that.”

      “Lovely.  He’s a doctor, I take it.”

      “And I’m proud to call him one of mine.  Between him and John, I’m the fine figure you see before you.”

      “So that’s two physicians I need to avoid if I want to stay healthy.”

      “It’s probably for the best.  Both of them are crap for compassion and don’t mind tranquilizing you if you get uppity.”

      “Medicine malpractice at its finest.  But… be honest with me for just one thing… whoever did this to you, they _did_ pay, right?  Someone saw the right thing was done so you didn’t suffer for nothing.”

Oh, there was no doubt Edgar the Bastard paid and paid a hefty price, but the details, oddly, were something he didn’t want to know.  The fact that whatever happened spooked Sherlock, no matter how badly the lad tried to hide it, was enough to verify he’d gotten his revenge, even if it wasn’t by his own hand.

      “Yes, and I’m fine with the outcome.”

      “And I’m sure you thanked your Mycroft very nicely and in a way I never, ever want to know about.”

      “Who said Mycroft did anything?”

      “He’s a semi-minor government official, in your sadly-pathetic lie, and they’re good for things like that.  I’ll have a chat with him the next time my landlady decides the heat doesn’t need to be fixed for a few weeks even though it’s mid-January.”

      “He’d love that.  I can’t guarantee you’ll be employed for long afterwards, but Mycroft does enjoy a bracing bit of conversation.”

      “I _have_ been hoping for a nice, long holiday.”

      “Believe me, it’s not as wonderful as you might think.”          

      “I didn’t say I wanted mine accompanied by holes in my chest.”

      “Oh, then you’ll have a great time.”

      “I ought to mention, Molly said to say hello.  She’s a little shy about visiting, but I said I’d pass along her good wishes.”

      “I’ll phone her.  I admit I haven’t been very good about getting back in touch with people.”

      “Not wanting to answer all the questions?”

      “Basically.  There’s… there’s a lot I can’t talk about, for a lot of reasons, so it’s hard to chat with people when you know they want to hear _everything_.  And I can’t say it’s always easy talking about what happened at all.  It’s just been the few of us together since the incident and I’ve been alright with that, but even then I sometimes have a difficult time.”

      “You know you can always talk to us, don’t you?  Sally, me… we’re here if you need us.  And I know you avoid them like the plague, but the psychologists they have milling about looking for anyone who seems like they’re going to explode from the stress might be a good option, too.  They’ve dealt with people in your situation before and probably know the right things to say, the right questions to ask.  Even if you can’t give them the super-secret details, the fact you were shot should be enough for them to work with.  It might help.”

      “It might at that and I’m not disregarding anything right now, including… including my friends.  Anyway, I suspect my medical team is going to make me talk to a professional at some point and I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t someone with experience with situations like mine.  Neither of them would overlook a detail like that.  John’s been where I am, for christ’s sake… ”

      “I forgot that John has some idea of what you’re going through!  He doesn’t talk about that at all.”

      “So did I!  Whinging like a toddler with his toy taken away and there was John staring down at me knowing exactly what it was like to be shot.  And he moved on from it, eventually.  Gives me a little extra confidence that I will, too.”

      “You will.  If anyone can, it’s you.  You may not be good for much, but when it comes to stubborn, you could win prizes.”

      “John swears it’s the only thing that kept me alive in the first place.  Just too stubborn to die.”

      “I believe him.  At least the Grim Reaper knows when he comes to collect you the next time that he’s got a fight on his hands.”

      “I’m going to keep a knife in my back pocket just in case.  Shiv the bastard right between the ribs.”

      “I don’t think Death actually has anything between his ribs, being a skeleton and all.”

      “You just can’t stop with your science, can you?”

      “It’s a moral failing.”

__________

Ok… that was good.  That was very, very good.  He’d gotten his hands on a case and actually gave some pretty substantial input before Anderson left.  And he was promised another stack of folders to peruse for some of his cases that had languished without his personal touch.  Not that he was the only one who could do his job, but once you were on a case, you grew to know it in a way that someone who hadn’t worked it from the beginning ever could.  Sometimes, a new face was a good thing… brought objective eyes and a fresh, unbiased perspective to the game, but other times… it wasn’t the best situation.  Not that he could do much but offer advice, or make phone calls or, as a last resort, try and convince Sherlock to throw his hand in, but he could do _something_.  Which was leaps and bounds more than he’d been able to do before and it felt brilliant.  Speaking of brilliant…

      “Greg!”

      “Arthur!  How was today’s adventures?”

      “Brilliant… it was positively brilliant.  Look at all of this!”

Arthur held up the filled-to-bursting messenger bag and the other bags that were hanging from his arms like large bracelets.

      “I take it you found bear outfits galore.”

      “That we did.  And we went back to the zoo, because it’s a lovely day and the zoo is especially wonderful on a lovely day.  And I collected LOTS of information for the WEDDING! and samples and I didn’t forget the cake, don’t worry about that.  It’s in the kitchen right now just waiting to be eaten.”

      “And we’re not eating it now, why?”

      “Oh, because I have to go with Doctor Sam and Douglas to see Doctor Sam’s possible new flat.”

      “He found something?”

      “I think he found something he’s willing to look at and I’m going to help because if there’s anyone who knows what makes a home comfortable and happy, it’s me.”

      “I’m sure Sam will appreciate that.”

      “I wish you could come, too, but Doctor Sam said it was too much exertion for you.  Skip’s going to keep you company, though.  And Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson should be back soon.”

      “I can survive without a child minder, Arthur.”

      “True, but isn’t it more fun when you have one?  Besides, Skip said he’d like to read for awhile and he won’t be able to do that inspecting Doctor Sam’s flat, so I think it’s best he stay here and while he’s here he can keep you company, so you both have time to read and relax and play cards or whatever you decide to do.”

      “You’re right.  Besides, he can start looking through the cakes I found and pick the ones he likes.”

      “Yes!  Oh, and it looks like you found a lot of them.”

      “I remember when I got married, we just went to someone in the area and it was a quick thing to pick something out because they all looked very much alike, in my opinion.  Now… I think you’ll be able to get whatever you want made and it will look amazing.”

      “Brilliant!  Then that’s definitely something Skip can do today.  It _is_ his wedding, too, so he should have some say in our cake.  And our decorations and what food we serve… though I don’t think he’s quite as particular as I am.”

      “No, I don’t think he is.  But that’s fine since each member of a couple brings his own strengths and talents to a relationship.  I’m sure there are things Martins’ a lot more particular about than you, for instance.”

      “Oh, there are.  Skip is a bit picky about tidiness, for example.  Even more than Mum, which is rather difficult to believe.  Mum actually said that before she left for Greece.  As long as Skip was helping to keep an eye on our house, it would probably stay nice and clean.  I must admit that’s not something that has always happened when Mum has taken a little holiday and left me at home alone.”

      “Yeah, well, I’m not the tidiest man in existence, either.  Mycroft’s going to learn that the hard way when I’m up and moving about.  I think it’s going to make him loony.”

      “You could be right.  I’ve been trying very hard to keep the kitchen and my and Skip’s bedroom very clean so it doesn’t give Mycroft a headache because he does seem to prefer things neat.  You should have seen the mess when Doctor Watson and Skip were here after they ran away from Mr. Sherlock’s flat!  It was… well, even I had to say that it was rather awful and they’re supposed to be tidy men, in the first place!  I made Skip help me clean, even though he was mad at me, which was probably _why_ he and Doctor Watson forgot about being neat and clean, now that I think about it.”

      “Good for you.  Being mad is no excuse not to take care of the house.”

      “No, no it isn’t.  And I’m going to make sure Skip remembers that when we have a little house of our own.  Which might not be right away, but we can practice while we’re in Mycroft’s little house, so I’m not very worried.”

      “Worried about what?”

      “Skip!  Perfect.  We were just talking about you being tidy except when you’re mad.”

      “Oh good… are you ready to leave?  Douglas has Sam up and in motion and I think he’ll just keep moving him forward now they’ve got momentum going.  You’d better hurry if you want to go with them.”

      “AH!  Right!  Yes!  Skip – you look at cakes and read.  Greg – you show Skip cakes and read or watch a nice program on the telly.  I’ll be back soon and we can eat cake.  After dinner, of course.  Or maybe before, because I really don’t believe that having a bit of cake before dinner spoils your appetite and…”

      “Goodbye, Arthur.”

      “Yes!  Goodbye, Skip!”

Arthur ran out of the room as if his trousers were on fire and left Martin and Greg alone to enjoy the moment of quiet.

      “I love him.  I love him more than I thought it was possible to love anyone, but, now and again, a little break is a very welcome thing.”

      “I feel the same way about mine, Martin, so don’t worry about it.  So does John.  And, my guess is Arthur, Mycroft and Sherlock think the same about us.”

      “Actually, I bet they don’t.  They love people a little differently than most, I think.  As much as I love Arthur, I genuinely believe he will always love me more deeply and if we were on a desert island, he’d happily spend the rest of our days not three feet from me at any point in our day.”

      “You know, you’re right and I know exactly what you mean.  I love Mycroft with everything in me and I know, I absolutely know this his love for me is on an entirely different level.  Or maybe that’s not the right idea, I don’t know, but what I _do_ know is that you’re right, even if I can’t explain it properly.  And the same is true for Sherlock.  John loves like a normal person but Sherlock… I guess it’s fair to say he loves like a Holmes.  Since Arthur’s more Holmes than either of us, it’s not surprising he inherited that trait in his imaginary genetic grab bag.”

      “I thought, years ago, I’d seen the last of the Holmes family and now I’m marrying into the brood.  Carolyn on one side and this lot on the other… I think insanity might be in my future.”

      “Well, you’ll be in good company so we can have a pint and chat while they give our straightjackets their weekly wash.”

      “That’s definitely something to look forward to.  And I can’t forget that Douglas is in tight now, too.  I’m never going to escape… especially if he carries out his threat to visit Arthur and me, now that we’re going to have our own place to live.”

      “It’s a different life, isn’t it?  I had my flat and my nights out at the pub, usually alone, unless I could convince John to come out or one of my mates from work.  Pretty simple, pretty routine, pretty quiet… now all of that’s tossed out the window and I can’t say I’m upset by the fact.  It’s not something I’m used to, having so many people in my life who honestly care and act on it.  It’s a good thing, though.  A very good thing and now I can’t imagine living my life without that.”

      “Something I am definitely familiar with.  I’m not… I’ve never had an abundance of social contacts and that’s been ok.  I mean, you really don’t _need_ a lot of people in your life to do your job or read a good book or appreciate a fine day, so it’s been… it’s been alright, but it’s… alright isn’t really the best you can hope for, is it?  I thought it was, but…”

      “Not anymore.”

      “No, not anymore.  Alright is fine when that’s all you have, but I have more now.  Not in any way I would have ever expected, but that doesn’t matter and I am certainly not going to let it go.”

      “Even if part of those social contacts is the Prince of Surly Darkness?”

      “Another thing I wouldn’t have expected!  Sherlock’s not the same, though… he’s still a complete bastard, but… just not in the same way.  I can’t ever forget what he did, that’s not possible, but I don’t have to let it get in the way of… I don’t know.  Having _some_ form of relationship.  It will be difficult not to what with the Holmes-Shappey Detective Agency at work, but it doesn’t tear at me as badly as I thought it would once I took a deep breath and remembered who Sherlock’s become.  How he treats Arthur is evidence enough he’s not the same person who tried to set my toenails on fire to test their flammability.”

      “That would certainly earn him one of Arthur’s little chats.”

      “A finger-wagging, too.  Arthur is very much in favor of fire safety.”

      “Then there you have it.  You ever start to feel anxious about His Majesty, you just remember that you’ve got your personal secret weapon that not even Sherlock can withstand.”

      “Or Mycroft.”

      “That is probably now a highly-guarded state secret.  Imagine what the enemy could do if they could gain any measure of control over Arthur.  They’d have Great Britain by the bollocks!”

      “Luckily, my fiancé is dedicated to using his powers only for good.”

      “And we’re all thankful for it.  Sam’s not even immune, proving Arthur’s Holmes whip-crack capabilities.”

      “I hope Sam likes this flat they’re going to see, because if Arthur does, the lease is going to be inked and the kitchen is going to go into immediate use for Arthur to bake a ‘Hurray!  Doctor Sam has a brilliant flat!’ cake.”

      “Yep.  Rude bugger will have no hope.”

      “He should just have let Arthur go out and find something to begin with.”

      “Damned inefficient of him.”

      “Must’ve been the hangover.”

      “That’ll do it.  Maybe that will teach him a lesson.”

      “Somehow I doubt it.”

      “I do, too, but I’m trying to be positive.”

__________

      “Brilliant!  This is the most brilliant flat ever!”

Sam sighed loudly and looked to Douglas for support, who waved him off with a ‘he’s your problem, deal with him’ flick of the wrist.

      “Arthur…”

      “It’s got everything!”

      “Yes, one floor and one ceiling and a selection of pertinent walls.  Full definition of ‘flat’ satisfied.”

      “Even Douglas agrees and that doesn’t happen often.”

Sam glared his ‘I thought you said he was _my_ problem’ glare and followed Arthur into one of the bedrooms.

      “Windows! “

      “Which most walls have at some point, kid.”

      “But these windows let you see things!  All the people and buildings and cars oh!  there’s a little park and its brilliant!”

      “Good to know the windows are working correctly.  But…”

Arthur dashed towards another of the doors off the sitting room and Sam gave Douglas his one-fingered opinion of the ‘hurry along’ motion the First Officer was giving him, before slowly stalking after the excited boy.

      “And _this_ bedroom is especially brilliant!  There’s plenty of room for a bed and your clothes and a nice dresser for your pants and socks.”

      “Like every bedroom in existence.”

      “No, no that’s not true.  Skip’s bedroom doesn’t really have plenty of room for that.  Of course, he really doesn’t have a bedroom, so much as he has one room that happens to have a bed in it.  And… yes!  Look!  There’s a toilet and a tub and a shower and they’re brilliant!”

      “And that’s only one bathroom.  There’s another don’t forget because this place is friggin’ Buckingham Palace.”

      “I think this is better than Buckingham Palace.”

      “You do?”

      “Absolutely.  I used my phone and see…”

Arthur showed Sam his mobile screen and began to point to the colored lines.

      “That’s how to get to Mr. Sherlock’s flat from here and it’s not far at all!  You could walk if you wanted a nice, longish walk and that’s the way to Mycroft’s house and, even though you would have to walk a long time to get there, it’s not very far if you take a cab and it would be a much longer walk or cab ride if you lived at the Palace.  And I’m sure they have very nice kitchens, but…”

Arthur grabbed Sam’s hand and dragged him carefully out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, waving at Douglas as they passed him by.

      “… they can’t be as nice as this kitchen!  It’s brilliant!”

Sam looked at the spacious kitchen and had to admit that it had potential.  Verbalizing his thoughts was put on hold, however, at the shout of ‘Incoming’ in Douglas’s gleeful voice.

      “Mr. Sherlock!  This is… I told you, Doctor Sam!  Mr. Sherlock took a little walk to come and visit you and you don’t even officially live here yet!”

      “This isn’t entirely appalling.”

      “Thanks for that, Sherlock.  Coming from someone who lives in a rat trap, your words mean as much as when the nurse holding the syringe says this won’t hurt a bit.”

      “The area doesn’t completely reek of potential sexual molestation and bludgeoning.”

      “That’s true!  It’s very important to have pleasant neighbors, too.  I know that because, now and then, we have some _awful_ neighbors when we’re flying and Mum puts us in a hotel in an area where… well, I might have a small worry about bludgeoning.”

      “How did you even know where we were?  I thought when John said you were like a bloodhound, he didn’t actually mean you shoved your nose into the concrete and sniffed your way after people.  Was that why my fucking underwear was all messed up in the drawer this morning?  You been sniffin’ my boxers, Sherlock?  You have, haven’t you, you freaking pervert.”

      “John telephoned Mycroft’s house and spoke with Martin, who informed us as to your location.  I took it upon myself to ensure your mentally-impaired condition did not lead you to any property that could be remotely be considered in close proximity to Baker Street.”

      “Worried about the spotlight shifting from your doorstep, Dupin?”

      “I am more concerned, Mr. Richardson, with Sherrinford’s almost certain case of venereal disease wafting through my window and cutting short the lifespan of my intelligence.”

      “But are your windows as majestic as these?  Arthur was waxing rhapsodic about them for a full five minutes.”

      “I did!  Have you had a look through them?  I could sit and look out of them all day and when I visit, I might just do that if Skip’s under the weather and doesn’t want to do something in the city.  There are even little feeders you can stick to windows, so the birds come right up to you to eat and you can watch them.  I really would sit here all day if Doctor Sam had one of those.  Oh!  I know!  I’ll get one for a ‘Hurray!  You have a new flat!’ present.  Skip and I will go right out tomorrow morning and find a very nice one.”

      “Notice I haven’t actually signed a lease, Arthur.”

      “Oh, you’re right.  I’ll go and get the lady who let us in so you can get the paperwork sorted.”

Arthur dashed out of the kitchen to the sound of Douglas’s laughter and Sam’s string of muffled and quickly edited profanities.

      “Congratulations, Sherry.  You’re the proud resident of this overpriced and failingly modernistic, though _winningly_ appointed with windows, flat.”

      “The nearest liquor store is… I’m going to have to visit Skinny and steal from him!”

      “But you have this lovely kitchen to store your pilfered goods.  Have you any furnishings remaining to populate this monotone and noticeably characterless space?”

      “Not even a dogs playing poker painting to hang on the wall.”

      “Then, might I suggest that our next computer expedition be through the offerings of the city’s furniture purveyors?”

      “Fuck.  Fuck a very fat duck.”

      “Not without a bed, I think.”

      “That’s it!  I’m pitching a tent in the park.”

      “You are as pathetically dramatic as Mycroft.”

      “You take that back, Sherlock.  Nobody can match Skinny for drama.  I knew I shouldn’t have let him read all that Sophocles when he was a kid.  Seven year-old in a bed-sheet toga reciting passages from _Antigone_ … that’s just not right.”

      “We’re back!  And Mrs. Johnson is very happy you’re going to be living here, Doctor Sam.  If anyone in the building gets ill or has an accident, you’re right here to help them!”

Sam’s pained moan made a smile break out on Sherlock’s face as Douglas laughed again at his friend’s plight and the sight of Arthur pulling the doctor, who was breaking into a round of stage-worthy fake sobs, towards the smiling landlady.

      “Did Sherry actually believe that once Arthur saw a large, bright flat close to many of his personal favorite attractions that our dear steward would let the day end without a name on the lease?”

      “Apparently, intelligence is not a requirement for a medical degree in America.”

      “No, I suppose it’s not.  Something to remember the next time I’m facing a piece of dodgy sushi when dining on that side of the Atlantic.”

      “Chaps… we really should have a little party for Doctor Sam since he found a brilliant flat and won’t be leaving London.  What do you say?”

Arthur smiled hopefully from the door to the kitchen, having left the resigned Sam with the landlady to sign the lease agreement.

      “I’m certain Sherry would be delighted, especially if you are amenable to crafting for him a hat for the occasion.”

      “Brilliant!  Yes!  I’ll make the very best party hat ever.  Thanks, Douglas!  And we can make a little stop on the way back to Mycroft’s to pick up supplies.”

      “And Mr. Richardson will be happy to serve as your sole escort for your shopping trip.  I will stay here with Sherrinford and… measure the rooms for his future furnishings.”

Countering Douglas’s glare with one of his own, Sherlock then smirked as Arthur’s face lit up even more brightly and he pushed the First Officer out of the kitchen with an excited ‘Bye’ ringing through the empty flat.  Once they were gone, Sherlock stalked through the space examining each room, reflecting on the floor plan, until he heard a slow shuffling step enter the flat.

      “I am so fucked.”

      “Oh, you and the landlady had an enjoyable negotiation?”

      “Funny.  That was actually funny and I’m so proud of you I could give you a kiss.  Come here and let me liplock you, baby brother.”

      “No.  If you wish to violate me you will have to catch me.”

      “You’re safe, then.  I can barely get out of my own way right now and you’ll just swirl that big coat of yours in my face to slow me down even more.  When did I get so pitiful?”

      “At birth.”

      “He’s on a roll!  And why did Arthur giggle at me when he pulled Douglas away from this train wreck?”

      “Consider it a surprise.”

      “This day keeps getting better.  Find me a newspaper… I bet the headline reads ‘Prohibition Comes to London’ and this whole city just became dry.”

      “Since you are obviously planning on remaining her for the long-term, I see where that would be a problem.”

Sam leaned against the wall and studied his brother, intrigued by the tone in Sherlock’s voice.

      “Changed your mind about thinking that’s a good idea?”

      “No.”

      “Then, what?”

      “I am simply surprised that you have not.”

      “Explain.”

      “It is impossible at this point to predict if Mycroft will ever be amenable to re-establishing a relationship with you, you do not appear to possess a wealth of friends in London, if any were to be found at all, the salary you draw does not compare, I am certain, to what you could command in the United States… on balance remaining in London does not seem the most profitable decision.”

Sam nodded and smiled gently at his little brother.

      “You’ve got a point.  But I’ve never been one to have a flock of friends in my life, so I can’t say my lackluster social life here is any different than my lackluster one in the US.  And, you’re right, I could make a lot more dough in the States, but I learned a long time ago, though, that money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Admittedly, life’s a lot happier when you’ve got enough cash to cover your bills and put food in your mouth, but the happiness doesn’t necessarily keep increasing because you’ve got more.  I grew up knowing people with more money than god and they were miserable fuckers.  On the other hand I’ve known people who scraped by and enjoyed every minute of life.”

      “It does not bother you that your talents aren’t financially compensated as fully as possible?  I would assume that would be important to you, since you did not inherit any of the family monies.”

      “And you’d be wrong, because that’s not why I got into medicine.  Believe me, I know plenty of shady characters that did and you would not want them anywhere near you with a scalpel, pill or bill.  The challenge is what gets me up in the morning.  I never know what the day’s going to bring… even the most common conditions can be interesting because every person presents them differently.  Money can’t buy interest, Sherlock, or satisfaction with yourself because you cracked some puzzle that had others completely stumped.  That’s something I _know_ you understand, so I won’t belabor it… but don’t think that you’re the only one in the world with that drive.”

Sherlock snorted and made a show of checking that Arthur’s precious windows actually opened and closed.

      “As for Mycie... he’ll do what he feels is best for him and I’m hoping that spells good things for _both_ him and me, but he’s not the only person who is important to me.  I never, _ever_ thought I’d have a family again, Sherlock.  Three times not a charm, most of the time.  It’s usually three strikes you’re out… but I’ve got another chance and I don’t plan on letting it slip through my fingers.”

      “Yet you were happy to abandon London when Mycroft had his tantrum.”

      “Well, I didn’t see you jumping in to give me a hand, now did I.  If I remember right, you said if I knew what was good for me I’d get my ass out of there before Mycroft had his goons do it for me.  And the windows work for god’s sake!  Are you trying to signal the enemy or something?”

Sherlock moved away from the window and started to fidget with the light switch instead until Sam toed off his shoe and kicked it at him.

      “Don’t kick that filthy thing at me!”

      “Then stop being a nervous nelly.  I’m not calling you out, you little punk!  I’m just reminding you why I might not have thought it would be the best idea to keep my ass in this pollution pit!  It wasn’t the best time for me, ok… maybe I wasn’t thinking as straight as I could have been, so give me a break.”

      “And if Mycroft has another of his prima donna episodes, are we going to arrive here and find this residence as empty as your last?”

Ah… the proverbial other shoe falls, which was appropriate since the first shoe was sitting on the floor staring haughtily at Sherlock.

      “No, you won’t.  Learned my lesson for that and I will _not_ be beating feet on you again, at least, not without letting you know where I’ve gone.  And I don’t actually have any plans for doing that, so I think you’re stuck with me for awhile.  Remember that ‘not the only person who is important to me’ thing?  Well, you’re right up there at the top of the list.  I promise that before I consider any future change of address I’ll talk about it with you first and I’ll listen to what you have to say with an open mind if you’re against the idea.”

      “Very well.  I accept your proposal.”

      “Goody for me.”

      “John will likely be pleased.  This atrocious location is not so far from our flat that he cannot use it as a location for one of his periodic walks ‘for air.’ “

      “I already planned for that.  All the flats on my approved list had multiple bedrooms in case someone got thrown out for being a shit and needed a place to crash.  That goes for a walk-out because someone’s _being_ a shit, too.”

      “Which John _has_ done.  And on more than one occasion.”

      “Case in point.  He came back though, which is the important thing.”

      “That, perhaps is not quite the case.  He has had to be coerced at times.”

Sherlock described their bit of theater on the bridge with Martin and Arthur and Sam burst out laughing at just how ridiculous his family could be.  And why couldn’t they do great stuff like that when _he_ was around?

      “Arthur’s one of us, that much is certain.  Why do things the easy and simple way if you can re-enact a Cold War novel instead.  I couldn’t admire his moxie more if I tried.”

      “I think Mycroft will formally adopt him at some point, though Arthur might not be aware of the fact.”

      “Skinny would make a good dad.  He and Greg need a little suit-wearing baby of their own to raise.  I’m going to start bugging them about that.  If there’s any job in this world I would excel at is being the overindulgent, crazy uncle.”

      “The thought is nearly sickening.”

      “Don’t worry, Sherly, I’ll spoil your kids, too.”

      “The thought has actually reached sickening.”

      “Just you wait… one day, a little bundle of joy will land on your doorstep and you’re going to fall stupidly in love with it.  Admittedly, it might be John after a really hard bender, but it could also be some other tiny thing in a diaper, cooing and sucking its thumb.”

      “And why not you?  You are not too old to have another child.”

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he had a nice glass of bourbon to take the sting out of Sherlock’s question.

      “No, I’m not too old, but it’s not going to happen.”

      “John noted that despite your unseemly crowing, you are not as active sexually as you purport.”

      “He did, did he?  Miserable troll… well, he’s sort of right and sort of wrong.  I get my fair share of evenings with pleasant partners, but… well, an evening or two is about it.  Never anything serious.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly and gazed curiously at his brother.

      “Is it because of your wife?”

Sam’s sigh was deeper this time and both hands ran through his hair, as he thought about an answer.

      “I suppose so, at least partly.  If I had the same girl on my arm for a whole week when I was young, I considered it a long-term relationship.  Have a nice time, treat her more respectfully than a lot of idiots my age, but never anything more than a little fun.  When I met Laura… my whole world changed.  I never so much as thought about another woman while we were together.  They just… there was no appeal.  She was the light of my life, I swear that every breath I took was for her.  Then she was gone.  One phone call and I find out I’m alone.  My wife and my son both gone.  You wouldn’t have wanted to know me for awhile after that.  You think I’m a loser now… I have no idea how I didn’t drink myself to death.  But it doesn’t leave you… loving someone, I mean.  It never, ever leaves you.  Some people can move on… find someone new they love, though it’s a different love than the one they lost.  I couldn’t.  I think I had one true love inside me and when I found who it belonged to, that was it.  All the love I had was for one person and I lost them.  Now… it’s like when I was younger.  I enjoy an evening with a friend, but there’s no pull to take it any further.  I even, and this sounds pathetic, I even come home and tell Laura how the night went!  Where we went for dinner, what I wore, what flowers I bought, how far things went… I hear her in my mind laughing at me for trying the same moves over and over like an old dog who can’t learn new tricks.  I won’t have another wife, Sherlock.  I can’t.  And that means no more children.  I can’t say I would want any, anyway.  I don’t know if I have enough love left in me to give them what they need.  Don’t look to me to make you Uncle Sherlock.  Greg’s still fertile, though, so there’s some hope there.”

Sherlock hated it when there were emotional issues to be discussed because he had very little idea how to appropriately address them.  This was John’s area.  John… who was the only person who had made his own world change…

      “Did John… while I was… away… did John have… evenings with a friend?”

      “Sherlock, you do _not_ want to dwell on things like that.”

      “I would not blame him… but…”

      “You want to know.  Fine… John had a few dates, but that’s as far as things went.  If you want to know if he had sex while you were dead, I’d have to say no.  He wouldn’t have been able to hide that from me.  How do you feel about it?”

      “I do not… I cannot answer that.  I have not had sufficient time to process the data.”

      “Well, how about I fill you in to save time.  Probably a little relieved and a little guilty in about equal measures.  Happy he loved you enough that it soured him on anyone else, but guilty because the thought of him lonely and sad hurts to think about, especially since it was your fault.  For good reason, nobody’s denying that, but it was still because of you he suffered so badly.  But, if you didn’t love him like you do, that guilt wouldn’t bother you as much.  John’s your _one_ , baby brother, and I couldn’t be happier that you found him.  And I also couldn’t be happier that I get to watch your life with him develop.  You and Mycie… took you long enough, but you got there eventually and that’s what really counts.”

      “Do not equate me with Mycroft.”

      “Well, if that’s not a ‘baby of the family’ remark I don’t know what is.  Let me fill you in on something Kinderlock… you and Mycroft are damned alike in some ways.  Not all, but some.  And, because of that, both of you have to be very careful not to send Greg and John running for the hills.  Everybody has their limits and if they have to they _will_ leave to protect themselves.  And, for your information, they _will_ move on eventually.  It may take a long time and the pain they’ll go through will be crippling, but they’re not like us.  They have a greater capacity for loving people than we do and they will use that to rebuild their lives.  Don’t think I didn’t have to pay attention to that every day with my family.  Stop and think about what I was doing, actively look for signals my wife might be sending me, take it very seriously what she told me I was being a dick.  The Holmes boys are great catches, but we also suck royally at being good partners once we’ve been caught unless we really try to demonstrate how we feel.  We love passionately, deeply and forever, but have no fucking clue sometimes how to behave in a way that lets the other person know how important, how vital, they are to us.  We rock _and_ we suck.  Should have that embroidered on a flag.”

Sherlock snorted, but every bit of his posture and facial expression told Sam that his message had been received loud and clear.

      “Regardless, I have already proven that I am a far more successful partner than Mycroft.”

And the baby comes surging back to where he’s most comfortable.  Being the youngest definitely had its advantages, but Sam decided the biggest advantage of being the oldest, was getting to watch the waving of tiny fists and hear the plaintive wails of the family’s youngest.  His brother was just so precious when he was hiding from the big emotional talks…

      “Oh, how?”

      “He cannot even present flowers successfully.  You, apparently, can even accomplish the task and that fully cements his lack of romantic skill.”

      “Fine, I’ll give him lessons in romance.  Should have been my job anyway, so I’ll just be doing it later than sooner.”

      “And he surely has no ideas for entertaining his partner.  If there is a more boring man alive, I would do everything in my power to avoid meeting him.”

      “And you’re the life of the party, I assume.”

      “Only this morning, I escorted John to his favorite café and then to the bookshop he prefers to purchase reading material.”

      “I think Skinny can figure that out without too much of a problem.”

      “That is unlikely.  The only outing he has undertaken with Lestrade was to the opera.”

      “What’s wrong with that?”

      “This season?  Do you have any idea of the dismal quality of this season’s performances?  You might as well toss a sack of cats into a room and put their tails in a vice; the assault on your ears would be virtually identical.”

      “Give him credit for trying, at least.  Not his fault they’re doing a shitty job this year.”

      “I rather think it is.  If he removed his ample nose from his ridiculous political gameplay, he could turn attention to matters of real consequence.”

      “I’ll talk to him about that, too.  Less war prevention, better sopranos.”

      “And tenors.  I will not regale you with their reviews, suffice it to say they are abominable.”

      “Anything else?”

      “He has fish lips.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I imagine that Lestrade must have pre-prepared sensory images ready to partake from when Mycroft presses his cold and fishy lips against him.”

      “And now we’re done.  You are officially a 10-year old, but I can’t say that makes me unhappy.  Now, I guess I have to figure out what I’m going to put in this place so I can sit, sleep and shit.  This is where Skinny would come in handy… he’s good with fussy little details like curtains and couches.”

      “If you will not persuade him to reorganize the Royal Opera, then you cannot have him decorate your flat.” 

      “Bitch.”

      “But you cannot say that makes you unhappy.”

      “You’re not as cute as you think you are, Sherlock.”

      “You’re correct.  I am far cuter.”


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft had grown accustomed to surprises associated with his return home, now that there was more than zero people waiting for him as he entered his house, however, surprises _before_ he entered the house were notably rare.  The bundle of balloons affixed to the door handle was most certainly surprising, though not the glare he was receiving from the wretch living three doors down.  Well, good sir, let us see how well you glare at the next budget presentation when your precious Royal Navy is reduced in funds to the point where it cannot fund a dinghy…

Disentangling the balloons from the door and without any hesitation whatsoever, the middle Holmes walked into the house and released a small sigh of relief when no clowns or circus animals were visible.  Of course, the house was quite a large one…

      “Mycroft!  Yes!  You’re here!”

      “Ah, Arthur… I assume you are the source of these lovely balloons.”

      “I most certainly am.  We’re having a party!  And parties have balloons on the door to let people know that there’s a party going on and, if they’re looking for the party, where it is so they can come and celebrate!”

      “And how many guests are we expecting?”

      “Well, just the lads and now that you’re here, that’s really all, but you never know who might want to stop and visit since they know we’re having a party!”

      “Very well thought out.  I applaud your commitment to festivity.  However, it is getting a tad dark and your balloons shall lose their stimulating effect in the blackness of night.  Perhaps they are better suited at the actual party location?”

      “Yes!  That’s a good idea.  Come on!”

Arthur dragged Mycroft to the kitchen to get the tray of snacks he’d come to retrieve and then continued the dragging back to Lestrade’s room, which was Ground Zero for their celebration.

      “Hurray!  Mycroft’s here!”

An announcement met with a highly diverse series of reactions, all of which could, quite hearteningly, be termed positive.  By now, Sherrinford’s petty hand gestures had been deciphered for the affectionate tokens they were and besides… the man had no standing now.  Not in that hat.

      “What is that upon your head?”

      “Brilliant!  The first thing Mycroft noticed was your hat, Doctor Sam!  I told you he’d like it!”

Well, who wouldn’t be overcome with… something… seeing the multicolored, bell and sequined adored, vaguely cowboy/jester/wimple construction perched on his idiotic brother’s fatuous head.

      “That’s because you’re the maddest of Mad Hatter’s kid.  This thing should be in a museum.  In fact, I’m going to get one of those big glass domes and display this puppy right in my living room.”

And, if asked, it would be a piece of experimental textile art handcrafted by a master of contemporary and whimsical themes.

      “Hurray!  If anyone sees it and wants one, all you have to do is phone and I’ll get right on it!”

Oh, there would be phoning.  And all these little pissants who were laughing their asses off at him were going to get their own majestic millinery to wear.  In fact, they could have another big party and show them all off.  Pics to be posted online whether they liked it or not.  John’s blog was as easy to crack as a raw egg…

      “May I know why Sherrinford is quite so spectacularly adorned or is it a secret I must guess?  And do take these balloons, dear boy, and make good use of them.”

Arthur snatched the balloons and tied them to Greg’s bed, while Douglas took point as the evening’s answer man.

      “We are celebrating the fact that Sherry shall soon be abandoning your sepulchral estate for his own smashingly featureless residence, quite some distance from this doorstep.  Care to join in?”

Suddenly, Mycroft _was_ in the mood for a bit of spirited rejoicing.

      “I would, indeed.  That was blessedly quick, Sherrinford.  Do you require assistance porting your garments and toiletries to your new abode?  I shall gladly conscript any number of street urchins to assist you with your relocation.”

      “Har de har har.  And no.  I can carry my socks and toothpaste on my own, thank you very much.  And, since that’s all I’ll have for awhile, I hope that toothpaste tube makes a comfy pillow.”

      “Sleeping on the floor is good for one’s back, brother dear, or so I’ve heard.”

Actually, though… it hadn’t struck Mycroft until then that his brother’s tantrum would leave the fool without any furnishings or household provisions.  Typical of the man… make the dramatic gesture with no thought for the aftermath.  Perhaps, however, there was a solution that might do good on two fronts.

      “My dear, are you awake?”

Lestrade grinned widely, though kept his eyes shut.  Today had been a very good one, but a very tiring one, nonetheless.  And a sore and achy one, as a bonus.  If the party preparations and party itself hadn’t been so much fun, he would have succumbed to a nap a long time ago.

      “No.”

      “Then I shall speak to your subconscious.  Might you be willing to loan Sherrinford the furnishings and items from your flat, at least until such time as he has chooses to acquire his own?”

Now the Detective Inspector’s eyes were open and staring incredulously at his lover.

      “I thought I said to get rid of all of that?”

      “You did, however, I decided it was prudent to forestall that particular action until we could again discuss the matter.  You were somewhat emotional during that conversation and I did not wish you to suffer from a choice you would later regret.”

Something, Lestrade had to admit made sense.  But, he still didn’t want his stuff in this house.  Yes, he understood Mycroft’s arguments and yes, maybe he _should_ want his things here, but… the important things already were.  His personal items, the things that had meaning… all of that _was_ here.  A sofa or bed or table… who cared?  Well, Sam might care since he didn’t have any of that, but here was a chance to kill two birds with one stone.  His partner was a very, very smart man…

      “That would be great, if he wants my awful old crap.  Sam you want my awful old crap?”

      “Is Skinny’s happy juice embedded in the mattress?”

      “Actually, no.  And I don’t think any of mine is either, come to think of it.”

      “Do you know how sad that is?”

      “Better than you.”

      “Then I accept.  Thank you, invalid, for the use of your crap.  I shall treat it will all the respect it deserves.”

      “If you make a bonfire, I want to be invited.”

      “Bonfire!  That’s brilliant!”

      “Settle down, Arthur… I’m not putting a match to Greg’s crap, because anything’s better than that big empty box.  Thanks, sicko.  I appreciate the loan.”

And then it was a small nod to Mycroft to acknowledge his _idea_ for the loan, which actually surprised the doctor fairly significantly.

      “Then it is settled.  I shall have Gregory’s storage space emptied and the contents moved to your new residence.”

      “And Skip and I will make sure everything is put exactly where it should be put and see if you have everything you need and go shopping so you have some groceries and…”

      “Arthur, love… you do remember we have to go back to Fitton in a day or so, correct?  Your mum’s going to be back on Tuesday, isn’t she?”

Arthur cut slightly sheepish eyes towards Martin and some of the light dimmed from them as he contemplated his fiancé’s words.

      “Oh… yes, you’re right.  Mum did say she was coming back and I suppose that means we have to go back, too, doesn’t it?”

Arthur’s voice sounded so sad that each of the older men started looking around the room for something to distract the steward to get him to smile again.

      “Actually, Arthur, I rather think Carolyn being home doesn’t necessarily signal a mass exodus back to our lovely Fitton.  As this point, the one scheduled flight we were to suffer obligingly cancelled and your mother’s talons, I mean, talents won’t likely snatch any for another day or so after her return, at the very least.  I believe we might look forward to a few more days of his Highness’s hospitality before we must lumber back towards our proverbial coal mine.”

      “Brilliant!  Thanks, Douglas.  And the house is tidy and clean, so Mum won’t be angry that she has a mess to tend to.  I’ll call her and tell her to let us know when we have a job and we can visit until then!”

Everyone knew, even Arthur, that their alternatively jubilant and turbulent holiday had to end at some point, but no one wanted that point to arrive quite this soon.  Each was experiencing something new and highly rewarding with their ragtag family and it was exceptionally difficult to consider seeing that family disperse, even though electronic communication would be a daily part of their lives.

      “John, is it now appropriate to leave?  I have many things to do that would be far more effective uses of my time than this prayer circle for Sherrinford’s headwear.”

John smirked at his lover, who had actually been on good behavior all night, and decided pushing things at this point wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.

      “Yes, it is now appropriate to leave.  Sam, are you certain that you can manage on your own tonight?”

      “Did you really just ask me that, pipsqueak?  One time I had to tend an entire ward on my own with only the camp’s dog as my nurse and a urinary tract infection that made pissing an involuntary invocation of Satan.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and launched from his seat, dragging John upwards with one hand and retrieving a sandwich from Arthur’s tray to hand to his partner with the other.

      “John is not impressed by your lies, Sherrinford.”

      “John is not impressed by your dick, Sherlock.”

      “And off we go.  Sam, call me if you need anything.  Greg, call me if you need rescuing from Sam.  Mycroft, call me if you need rescuing from Sam or Greg.  Everyone else, don’t call me.”

      “Bye, Doctor Watson!  Mr. Sherlock, are we still going to visit with Molly tomorrow?”

Something Sherlock had forgotten he’d promised the steward, but saw no reason to avoid.  He also, however, had no particular reason to visit the morgue at this time or, rather, the small café near the morgue where meetings occurred when Arthur was a participant.

      “Yes.  I will have her meet us here.  I suspect she would appreciate the opportunity to speak with Lestrade and now is as good as time as any, since he will not be any more agreeable if the meeting is postponed.”

Arthur’s hurray! kept Lestrade’s opinion on the matter tightly shut in the DI’s brain.  Anyway, he could do this.  He’d seen Sally and Anderson and the rest of the team and done a great job, so there was no reason to think it would be any different with Molly.  Except Molly had medical training and would want to know a lot of details.  Maybe _see_ a lot of details.  And would know if he was lying about anything because she was, as noted, medically trained and, also, because she was observant and clever about people, except in the area of her love life, but that was mostly the case for everyone in the world so it wasn’t a point against her.

But, Lestrade’s reaction did not go unnoticed by his partner, who settled next to the hospital bed and reached out to stroke Lestrade’s hand.  When the remaining guests departed, there would be a conversation on this issue and, perhaps, a rearrangement of tomorrow’s agenda if that conversation did not bear positive fruit.

__________

And, given it was an Arthur-fueled party, ‘when the remaining guests departed’ did not occur for some time and Mycroft found himself with a lover who was overtired, overstressed and in the upsetting place where sleep would not easily come even though his body was desperate for rest.

      “Are you in pain, my dear?  You may have another of your pills if you require it.”

      “No… well, not more than usual.  I could use a trip to the loo, though.  Had a little too much of Arthur’s juice.”

Or, rather, his love was restless and needed to move a little to try and settle himself.

      “Of course.  Here, allow me to assist.”

Before Lestrade could object, Mycroft extended his arm for his partner to use as support and was pleased that the offered support was not ignored.  Slowly, Lestrade was brought vertical and began the even slower walk towards the bathroom.  Slower and more unsteady than his other recent trips, Mycroft noticed.  These past two days had been very difficult for his dear Gregory…

      “I can make it from here, love.”

      “Will you be angry if I express disbelief in that statement?”

Lestrade huffed a frustrated puff of breath, but shook his head ‘no’ in response.

      “Then I shall accompany you.”

Though his partner said nothing, the combination of his darkened eyes and slight relaxing of his muscles spoke loudly as to the conflicted feelings tearing at Lestrade right now and Mycroft hoped the relief outweighed the defeat when the battle was completed.

      “You are simply exhausted from the excessive demands placed upon you these last two days, Gregory.  Do not look upon tonight as any sign, signal or portent of your general well-being or assessment of your future progress.”

      “I know.”

However, knowing, as Mycroft well understood, was not the same as believing.  Standing quietly and providing physical support while his partner tended to his personal business, the middle Holmes tried to picture in his mind how he would fare in a situation.  For him, a sedentary life was not really a burden.  As long as he had access to any form of communication, he could carry on at nearly full capacity.  There would be _some_ diminishment, but that was the purpose of delegation of responsibility.  His fiancé, however, was a vital, active man, who relished the physical aspects of his job and his life.  Though it would not be possible to ignore or evade the physical therapies Gregory would have to endure that would tire and pain him, they _could_ evade the unnecessary events that taxed him to this degree.  A small conversation would be had with the other family members to inform them of his fact.

As Lestrade turned to move towards the door, Mycroft couldn’t help but notice the quick cut of his lover’s eyes towards the shower stall and his own heart ached, knowing the thoughts occupying Lestrade’s mind.  However… perhaps a compromise could be reached…

      “Gregory, do you believe you might remain awake for a short while longer?”

      “Yeah, I’m destroyed, but I already know I’m not going to sleep.”

      “Perhaps I can help you with that.  And with other wants.  Here, hold the basin for support for a moment…”

Mycroft waited until Lestrade was steady, then turned and started the water running in the bathtub.  This might not be the wisest decision on his part, but his dear Gregory needed something encouraging at the moment.

      “A bath?  Are you serious?”

If Mycroft wasn’t, the widened and cautiously-gleeful look in Lestrade’s eyes would have cemented his resolve.

      “I am.  I believe between the two of us we can successfully maneuver you into and out of the bath and there is sufficient support for you while you recline.  I would not advocate this as a regular activity, but the slight bit of challenge should do you no further harm.”

He hoped.  And once the bath was partially filled and the temperature adjusted to a lukewarm value, the slow and very careful disrobing and lowering of Lestrade’s body into the water began.  His own personal bath was far more spacious and accommodating, but it also existed on the floor above this one and that luxury would have to wait until his lover was stronger.  But that luxury was one they could indulge in _together_ and the thought was a positively thrilling one…

      “How are you feeling, my dear?”

      “That… took something out of me, but… oh god, it was worth it.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and a large grin spread over his face.

      “Is the temperature acceptable?”

      “Yeah.  I normally like things hot as Hades, but right now that would probably kill me.  It’s perfect, love.  Just like you.”

Crooking his finger, Lestrade beckoned Mycroft over for a kiss that each man felt to his toes and the middle Holmes sighed gently after breaking contact.

      “This is wonderful also for me.  I would not have predicted the joy I would find in such activities, but… it is extreme, to say the very least.”

Helping his partner, making him happy, keeping him safe, fed, clean, stimulated, both physically and mentally… all of it was profoundly pleasurable and immensely rewarding.  As was the sensual experience of gently washing his fiancé’s skin, taking great care to keep the surgical area free from any stray moisture.  His Gregory’s powerful arms and legs, the comforting expanse of the stomach that mesmerized him when his hands roamed across the delicious flesh… yes, a measure of softness was forming, but that in no manner detracted from the decadence of the experience when he allowed himself the pleasure of stroking his lover like a very large cat.

      “And how… Gregory?”

      “Ignore it.”

Mycroft stared at the lines of moisture trailing down Lestrade’s cheeks and felt his stomach clench tightly and fill with acid.

      “I most certainly will not.”

      “Seriously, j…just ignore it.”

      “You are crying!  I shall not ignore something so…”

      “I’m happy, Mycroft.  Not upset, just… happy.  This… there were so many times…”

Lestrade tried to sniff back the tears streaming down his face and Mycroft tenderly wiped away the traces.

      “What do you want to say, my love?  Please let me know your mind.”

It took some effort for Mycroft to catch Lestrade’s eye, as the injured man tried to look everywhere in the room but at his partner, but finally contact was made and Mycroft smiled gently to coax his lover into speaking.

      “This.  You taking care of me.  _You_ taking care of me… you do so much and you never complain…”

      “I would never do that, Gregory.  You mean everything to me and I adore you… my devotion to you is as deep as the ocean, never doubt that, not for a moment.”

Lestrade’s tears grew heavier and Mycroft simply stroked his fiancé’s cheek as he poured out pitchers of whatever emotions were filling his soul.

      “F…for so long, I didn’t think it was possible.  For you to feel that way, I mean.  Then I had hope and… it felt like my insides were carved out when…”

Mycroft struggled to remain calm and quiet because his partner needed to let his words flow and not hold anything back.

      “I was so ashamed!  I spent s…so much time hating myself because I couldn’t let go!  I couldn’t let go and felt exactly as w…worthless as I thought you saw me.  Then it changed.  I st…started to hope again and then… I knew I was going to die, Mycroft.  On that g…ground, I _knew_ I was dying.  And there wouldn’t be any more ch…chances.  I was going to die and I’d never… I’d never know…”

Lestrade was almost choking on his words and his tears and Mycroft hated pushing him further, but there was no choice.  His Gregory had to push through this… it was too important to let fade away unspoken.

      “What, Gregory… what would you never know?”

      “What was real!  W…was it that night in Arthur’s guestroom?  Or what Edgar s…said?  That I was… your pet.  I would die not knowing... I loved you and you didn’t… if I was a fool and you just saw me… Oh god, I’m sorry, Mycroft.  I’m so, so sorry.  You’re w…wonderful to me and I must sound like…”

Mycroft ran damp fingers through Lestrade’s hair and tried to temper the fires of his distress.

      “Like a man who is speaking from the heart.  And I cherish it, Gregory… I absolutely treasure that you will speak to me of these things, not out of spite, but from a desire to explain and to receive the comfort you trust I shall bestow, as best as I am able.  It is the consummate expression of love, my dearest, to open yourself so fully, and I welcome it with arms open wide.  It is my honor and privilege to receive every of your worries, fears, doubts, regrets or insecurities, so that I might do my utmost to soothe the pain to which they subject you.  You are the center of my world, my love.  You shall be my _husband_.  Every tear, every laugh… I am immensely avaricious, Gregory.  I desire them all and to know the reason for each.”

Especially now when his future spouse’s emotions were easily evoked and difficult to control.  And he had so many dark issues through which to work.

      “I hate crying.”

      “Yet you are incomparably beautiful when you do, especially when your tears are those of joy.”

      “They are, too.  Sometimes… sometimes I see you and it just wells up like water rising up a p…pipe and I can’t…”

As more water spilled down Lestrade’s cheeks, Mycroft simply stayed quiet and let his lover release whatever good or evil was clawing to get out of his mind.  The fact that he felt as if he had fallen in the path of some form of farm machinery and been reaped, thrashed and strewn across a fallow field was of no significance at the moment.  This time was for Gregory, and for him alone.

      “I had to tell, Arthur, you see?  Even if… I had to t…tell him so you’d know.  I n…needed him to tell you, even if it didn’t mean anything to you.  I love you, Mycroft.  I did then and… it means so m… much that you’re here.  I wasn’t a f…fool… you love me, too.”

Lestrade fell into a harsh bout of weeping so strong, Mycroft had to brace him gently so he didn’t do himself any harm.

      “Never a fool, my love.  You held fast to your feelings because something inside of you always knew the truth.  Knew my inner heart, even when I tried to deny it or when I was forced to do so out of duty.  Perhaps it was not a truth that did you any good for long while, but one that remained strong until such time as you could gain its benefits.  And I do love you, Gregory.  I love you powerfully and to a depth that astounds me.  I cannot, not for a moment, begin to understand what you experienced that night, but I can disclose my reaction when young Arthur delivered your message.  I shattered.  I knew what I had done to you and that I would never deserve your affection, yet with your dying breath you granted me your love.  I became undone, my beloved, and shed a bounty of my own tears, which young Arthur was kind enough not to comment upon.  And there are times I again experience that terrible, wonderful pressure in my chest when I gaze upon you, hear your voice, feel you skin… I nearly lost you, Gregory and that here you remain is sometimes overwhelming.  But I rejoice every day that such is the case.”

Mycroft smiled gently and hummed softly, tenderly caressing his lover’s face, as Lestrade slowly gathered himself together.

      “I guess a bath wasn’t such a good idea, after all.”

      “Nonsense!  I believe this has been a more rewarding experience than either of us expected.”

      “Mycroft… I broke down like b…baby!”

      “And wasn’t it a marvelous thing?  You took a positive, healing step in a private, safe space with someone who is committed to seeing your health, in all of its aspects, improve.  I am very pleased.  And you are clean, as an ancillary benefit.  I believe we shall make this a regular feature of your recovery.  Now, shall we see to your hair?”

Lestrade tried to hold back the grin that was pushing against his lips and lost the battle entirely.

      “You’re a marvel, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “For that, you have earned a scalp massage, as well.”

      “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

      “No, but you do occupy the second position in that category, so take pride in a job well done.”

__________

The rest of the bath accomplished the goal of relaxing his lover to the point that getting him out of the tub was a surprisingly easy thing to do since his muscles didn’t tense and generate any additional trauma and a surprisingly difficult thing to do since his muscles didn’t tense and provide measurable assistance in the bath-extraction process.  Needless to say, the very unmanly giggles that filled the bathroom went completely unmentioned.

After a careful drying, Mycroft clothed Lestrade in fresh pyjamas and settled him in bed, knowing it would only be moments before his partner fell asleep, though Lestrade protested and demanded to see if there was a match on for entertainment.  A glacially slow parade through the channels only made it through eight offerings before the DI was fast asleep, leaving behind a contented Mycroft who turned off the telly and decided a quick trip to the kitchen for a cool beverage to sip while enjoying a book with his vigil beside his sleeping mate was certainly called for.

      “Ah… Martin.”

      “Mycroft.”

      “And where, might I ask, is your better half?”

      “Playing cards with Sam and Douglas.”

      “Oh, and were you not invited?”

      “I was and I lost every one of the crisps and biscuits they’re using as money.  And, before you make any comments about my skill with cards… Sam and Douglas targeted me specifically.”

      “Paranoia is most unbecoming, Martin.  But, in this case, it is most likely justified.”

      “Poor Arthur actually thinks he still has a leg in the game.  He doesn’t realize it’s really just a contest between Sam and Douglas and they’re using him as another piece on the board.  I don’t think he notices he has more than the appropriate number of cards in his hand most of the time because the two cheats keep slipping things for him to play to their advantage.”

      “If there is a method to defile even the most collegial pursuit, Sherrinford will surely find it and employ it eagerly.  You seem to have found some manner of amusing yourself, however.”

      “Amusing, no.  More like… researching.”

Mycroft walked towards his cousin and looked over his shoulder at the monitor of Lestrade’s laptop.

      “Wedding rings.”

      “Five weeks, Mycroft.  That’s not a lot of time.”

      “No, it is not, but I hope you realize that every person under this roof is fully prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to provide you and Arthur with precisely the wedding you desire, regardless of the brevity of the timeframe.”

Martin heaved a heavy sigh and nodded his head.

      “I know and I only have one real job to do, but… I don’t want to make a mess of it!”

      “I rather think that is an unlikely…”

      “If anyone could, it would be me!  I only have one chance at this, Mycroft, and it has to be perfect.”

      “Martin, I can assure you that whatever you opt to present to Arthur, he will be ecstatic.”

      “That’s the problem!”

      “That makes no sense.”

      “Arthur will be happy with anything, but I want this to be special.  Something he can be proud to show around.  Look at what he did for our engagement bracelets!  They could have been simple things and served the same purpose, but he put his whole heart and soul into them.  I want to do that for him, but… I don’t know if I can.  These are… like a Disney attraction!”

Martin waved his bracelet-clad arm in the air and Mycroft tut-tutted his drama.

      “But you do not have to follow precisely his example.  At least, as far as making a presentation with such an… extravagant… item.  Arthur’s vision is unique to him, as is proper.  You should not try to emulate it, for you are not Arthur.  Your fiancé presented you with a gift to express, in his way, his love for you and his happiness with your impending union.  All that is required is that you do the same, and in your own way.  Even a plain band is appropriately expressive and Arthur would cherish it and wear it proudly.  Do not allow this to distress you, Martin.  Your adoration of your fiancé is blindingly obvious… regardless of your selection, there shall be no doubt in the minds of any who see you that your union is a truly special one.”

      “I suppose you’re right.”

      “No, you know I am correct, but far too contrary to admit the fact.  Besides… Sherrinford shall be accompanying you during your search, correct?  If anyone could steer you towards a selection sufficiently exuberant to satisfy the most, shall we say, _high-spirited_ recipient, it would be him.”

      “That _is_ true.  The second part, not the first, which was simply rude.”

      “The truth, as they say, hurts.  Now, may I pour for you a beverage?”

      “Anything but juice.”

      “I believe there was a respectable ginger beer listed on the most recent grocery order.”

      “That’s perfect.  I’m starting to worry the fruit world is going send an assassin after Arthur and make me a widower before I’m even married.”

      “I shall attach a protection detail to him immediately.”

      “Thanks.  Now and then you’re good for something.”

      “Verily, it is a rare event, so let us enjoy a biscuit or two to commemorate the occasion.”

      “Three.  I feel like living dangerously.”

__________

The next morning found John taking Martin off for a little break away from the Holmes household, a first-round look at rings, with Sam’s blessing, and, for John, a chance to assess the overall health of his patient.  There had been little time to get the pilot alone for some concentrate attention to his issues and this was a good chance to take care of that situation before the great return to Fitton.

The morning also found Mycroft being glared into going to the office by Lestrade, since the middle Holmes was not entirely happy leaving his partner alone after his difficult evening.  However, Mycroft refused to leave until he was satisfied that Lestrade was both physically and emotionally ready to entertain a guest and promised that if his lover used his emergency signal today, there would be some form of non-lethal distraction within sixty seconds to spare him any further discussion about topics he would rather let sleep.  With a final, lingering kiss, Mycroft left the house and Lestrade finally let some of his anxiety begin to show.  Not that today was going to be bad.  On the contrary, it was going to be great!  Molly was a friend and a lovely person and there was no reason to be nervous, even if there was actually a lot of reason to be nervous, but negative thinking wasn’t going to give him any help so it was high time to nip that in the bud.  Besides, someone was shuffling about outside his door…

      “Hi Greg!  Can we come in?”

Arthur’s was only one of the pair of eyes peering around the door to Lestrade’s bedroom.  A second pair was familiarly surly and a third pair was familiarly sweet.  Show time…

      “Absolutely!  Just watching a little telly and that’s always crap, so I’m happy for a visit.”

That was the anticipated cue for the steward to burst in, holding Molly’s hand and Lestrade had to laugh as they both stood there, vibrating with excitement at exactly the same frequency.

      “Hi, Greg.  You look… well, you don’t look dead, which is really the only thing that matters.  Can I…”

Molly released Arthur’s hand and made a ‘can I have a hug’ gesture, which Arthur interpreted immediately, though Lestrade and Sherlock were a little slow on the uptake.

      “Sure you can!  Here, do it like this.”

Arthur rushed forward to give Lestrade a fingertip hug and motioned Molly to follow suit, which she did with zero hesitation.

      “I was so worried.”

The Detective Inspector smiled what he hoped was his most confident smile and nodded for her to take a seat.

      “I’m sorry about that.  Everything was sort of… classified… for awhile and I still can’t talk about certain details, but now, at least, people can know I’m doing well.”

      “And are you?”

      “Do you want to see his holes?”

Sherlock groaned loudly, but Lestrade laughed seeing Molly’s very gleeful grin at Arthur’s suggestion.

      “Can I?”

This was exactly what the man in the bed had hoped to avoid but, it honestly didn’t seem as upsetting right now with the big smiles from two of his visitors.

      “Be my guest.  Hold on…”

Lestrade unbuttoned the loose shirt Mycroft had put him in and let Molly have a look at the damage.

      “Oh… well, I suppose I should have expected a lot of… this, but… they did a nice job.  And everything seems to be healing well.”

Lestrade studied Molly’s reactions and noticed Sherlock was doing the same.

      “Think I’ll live?”

      “As long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

      “That’s me done for, then.  John’ll be happy to hear his work has your approval, though.”

Molly’s eyes widened and Lestrade realized she probably didn’t have certain specifics about his medical treatment.

      “John did your surgery?”

      “Well, part of it.  He… there was a team, from what I understand when I was first shot and John sort of took lead on that, mostly because Mycroft browbeat him into it.  The second time they had to open me up, John and Sam handled the work together.  So, yeah… “

      “Sam?”

      “Oh!  That’s Mr. Sherlock’s other…”

      “Sam is a mate of John’s who has some similar experience treating people who were dumb enough to stand in front of a pair of bullets.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at Arthur who wasn’t entirely sure why, but decided to wait and find out later.  For his part, the Detective Inspector was not sure how willing was Mycroft to let his true relationship with the faux-American be known and it was best to err on the side of caution.

      “He is an odious, meddling, infantile, inebriate who can scarcely be trusted with a piece of cotton, let alone a scalpel.”

      “Mr. Sherlock… Doctor Sam is very good with scalpels.  Don’t you remember how he juggled them for us?”

      “And my case is cemented.”

Molly giggled and continued to examine Lestrade’s condition, letting her own worries begin to ebb.  That phone call… she’d felt her stomach knot into a thick, hard brick hearing the news.  But here was the evidence that she could relax a little.  But only a little, though… she’d seen this sort of thing enough times on her table when things took an unexpected turn for the worse.

      “He and John did a nice job with this, Sherlock.  I know good work when I see it and this is very professional and… smart.  You can see how they cut in such a way to minimize the overall surgical trauma and…”

Sherlock’s attention focused tightly on Lestrade’s chest and the object of attention took the moment to simply lay back and examine his own feelings.  Which were surprisingly good.  Being a teaching tool wasn’t a bad use for the disaster that was his body.  Just about as good as scaring the piss out of Arthur’s dad.  And nobody was gagging, screaming or running for safety.

      “Doctor Watson and Doctor Sam are _very_ good at stitching people together.  They even taught me!  I didn’t get to stitch Greg, but I did get to stitch Doctor Sam.  Twice!  And I did a brilliant job, if I do say so myself.”

Molly cut eyes towards Lestrade who nodded happily.

      “Arthur is now an official part-time doctor’s assistant.  Earned that title… well, he earned that title keeping me alive, actually.”

Jumping into a chair and drawing up her legs, Molly settled in for the story.

      “I have to hear this.  Is it… can you tell that part, at least.”

That much he _could_ tell.  And the more he did, the better both he _and_ Arthur seemed to feel about the whole business.  Plus, it was an easy story to tell since Arthur and Sherlock were happy to jump in and add in particularly colorful details of the events of that terrible night after the trigger was pulled.

      “It’s like something from a film!  I’m so happy for you!  Not that you were shot, of course, but that you got to be part of an adventure.  And Arthur, you deserve a medal for what you did.  That was _really_ hard.”

      “Thanks!  It was, too.  I was getting so tired and my arms were getting rather like celery after you’ve cooked it a bit too long.  If Mycroft hadn’t gotten everyone there when he did, I’m not sure how much longer I could have lasted.  But he did, so hurray!”

      “Mycroft’s driving is nearly as rapid and reckless as his consumption of a chocolate sponge.”

      “Sherlock… I _have_ met your brother, you know.  And Greg… you actually said you loved him with your last breath?  That is _so_ romantic.”

A part of the story Arthur could have left out, but Lestrade couldn’t claim it was classified and let it die an unremarked death… and Molly almost looked misty-eyed at the revelation.  Ok… looked at a certain way, it _was_ romantic, even though it didn’t seem so at the time.  If a story was going to make its rounds through the force, and it would, there was no question of that, it wasn’t the _worst_ possible story to be harassed about for the next few years.

      “With me, you get the whole package. Good looks, brains, romance…”

      “Arrogance, delusion, mental defect, body odor…”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Remind me to make sure the only cases you get for the next few months is sweet shop robberies.”

      “Brilliant!”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade, then hurled himself into a chair to make a grand show of stealing the Detective Inspector’s tablet and begin ignoring everyone in the room.

      “Well, I think you’re right.  Mr. Holmes is very lucky to have you and I’m sure you feel the same about having him.  I don’t know him very well, I admit, but he seems… a decent sort.”

Sherlock’s ignoring of everyone in the room did not extend to expressing his snorted opinion about anything Mycroft-related.

      “Mycroft is brilliant!  Skip Brilliant, actually, and Greg couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.  Except for Skip, but he’s mine, so that’s not really an option.”

      “Arthur’s right, Mycroft’s… I couldn’t ask for anyone better.  He lets me know, he _shows_ me, every single day, how much he cares.  And for the worlds apart we are in life, we… fit.  I can’t say that when we’re together we have anything but a great time.”

      “I’m happy for you, Greg.  You deserve it.  So… when should I expect to get my invitation to the wedding?”

Arthur jumped over to sit on the arm of Molly’s chair so he could add his eager smile to hers and double the effectiveness.

      “Not on the horizon at this point, Molly.  Besides, we have another wedding to think about right now, don’t we, Arthur?”

      “WEDDING!”

Arthur leapt up and shimmied joyfully while Lestrade buttoned his shirt and laughed at the sheer amount of pure happiness wrapped in the Arthur-sized package.

      “And you will come to _our_ wedding, won’t you, Molly?  It’s going to be brilliant because everyone is helping to plan it and, even though Skip’s a bit touchy about Mycroft paying for things, he’s not being too much of a raincloud, so there will be plenty of food and sherry and chocolate and cake and… it’s going to be the best wedding ever!”

      “I’d love to come!  Will there be dancing?”

      “LOTS!  Lots of music and dancing!  Greg may not be able to stand up and dance for very long, but he can stand and walk a little, so he can dance a few steps.  And I’m sure Mycroft won’t mind if he does like the kiddies do in the films and stand on Mycroft’s feet and let Mycroft do the dancing for both of them.”

The funny part was, Lestrade knew that was something Mycroft absolutely _would_ do if he wanted to dance longer than his legs were willing to let him.

      “Romantic… it’s like living in a romance novel with Greg and Mycroft, isn’t it, Arthur?”

Sherlock’s mock vomiting earned him a cup of water from the ever-helpful steward.

      “It really is.”

      “It really is what?  And… well, who is this lovely young lady?”

Sam stood in the doorway, trying, now, to block Douglas from getting a look at the lovely young lady in question.

      “Sam, you miserable excuse for a plaster peddler.  Why don’t you go away so decent people don’t have to look at you?”

      “I agree with Lestrade.  Begone foul creature.  Return to whatever villainous depths witnessed your birth.”

      “That sounded rather wizardy, Mr. Sherlock.”

      “And rude as fuck.  God, you’re pissy little baby, Sherlock.  Arthur, check his diaper, while I introduce myself to your charming guest.”

Douglas took Sam’s descent into vulgarity as an opportunity to shoulder past his friend and stroll towards Molly, his most debonair smile on his face, to lift her hand for a kiss.

      “Douglas Richardson, at your service.  Ignore the American.  He escaped his cage this morning and we’ve had a devil of a time getting him back inside.”

Sam used his good side to hip-bump Douglas out of the way and wiped off the back of Molly’s hand before delivering a small peck of his own.

      “Ignore Grandad, dear lady.  He’s gotten a little senile and forgets his days of wine and roses are far behind him.  Now, in my case…”

      “Careful, Sherry.  It’s a sad thing, but the poor chap is suffering a terrible, likely emasculating, injury and sometimes lapses into a slightly delirious state.  You really must excuse him… no, I take that back.  There is absolutely no excuse for him, so forget I ever said anything.”

      “Yes!  Molly, do you want to see Doctor Sam’s ooze?”

This was absolutely the best morning Molly had enjoyed in a very long time.

      “Arthur… enough with the ooze.”

      “But, Doctor Sam!  Molly’s a doctor, so I’m sure she would be very interested in your ooze.  There’s usually a lot of it and…”

      “Yes, Sherry… do place your oozy, old and un-exercised body on display for the vivacious… Molly, was it?  Delightful name for a very delightful woman.”

      “Yeah, Sam, if I can do it, you can do it.”

      “You’re the most loyal man in the world, invalid.  I champion your little nightly nightcap and get a knife in the back for my troubles.  I tell you what, Miss Molly… why don’t you and I take a stroll over to Mycroft’s study for a pleasant conversation between colleagues.”

      “Stroll, old man?  More like you’ll stagger along in the manner of a directionally-challenged zombie and our beguiling visitor will have to stop and pick up the random bits that fell off of you along the way.  Why don’t you toddle along for a nap and leave the more vigorous among us to continue on with this highly-enjoyable interlude?”

Lestrade caught Molly’s eye and smiled widely.  If anyone deserved being fought over like a fairytale princess, it was her.

      “Molly would likely appreciate the zombie’s involuntary dismemberment.  She does work in the morgue.”

One pillow was thrown at Sherlock’s head, which Lestrade had to admit was a stupid idea since that left him with nothing to lay on but mattress.

      “But that’s ok, since dead people need doctors, too, so they can find out what they died from!  I must admit, some might have a fairly good idea, but for others, being dead is probably somewhat of a surprise.”

      “Thank you, Arthur.  Well, that settles things nicely.  After a long day of medical matters, I am quite certain such a charming woman would appreciate stepping out for the evening with someone quite distanced from her normal work-week activities.  Did I mention I was an airline pilot?  Silly me, it must have slipped my mind.”

      “You fly second seat in a crop duster, Douglas.”

      “Oh, how envy colors your face in the most unflattering shade of emerald, Sherry.”

This would definitely be added to her diary as verbatim as Molly could possibly transcribe it.  One thing she did have to clarify, however…

      “Are you the same Sam that performed some of Greg’s surgery?”

Sam grinned his most triumphant grin at Douglas and took a little bow.

      “That I am.”

      “Then why does he call you Sherry?”

Sam’s upraised middle finger was visible only to the smirking man it was meant for.

      “Because Samuel is a venerable name and this one disgraces it… well, disgracefully.  Something asinine and strikingly unmasculine is far more appropriate.”

The upraised finger made stabbing motions at the First Officer, who happily ignored its existence.

      “Well, either way, you did a very nice job with Greg.”

The upraised finger was joined by a second for a spirited V for victory.

      “Thank you, ma’am.  I appreciate that.  You have a very good eye.”

      “The exit wound looks a little rushed, though.”

Douglas’s laugh drew a smile out of Sherlock, who drank in his brother’s discomfort like fine wine.

      “John did it.”

      “Do not impugn John’s skill!”

      “Fine, Babylock.  We were a little rushed what with Greg dying and all from the plane crash…”

      “Plane crash!”

      “It’s ok, Molly!  It was just a teeny problem with the landing gear, but Skip did a brilliant job making sure we landed safely, except for Greg, who got a bit… dying… but, that was because he’d only been not-dead for a little while and… well, I suppose once you’re actually dead, it’s rather easy to go back.  Sort of like owning a cat.”

Molly shook her head at how everyone in the room except her and Arthur had no idea what the steward was talking about.

      “You mean like how once you own one… well, you’ll always own one because they’re wonderful and… once you’ve had cat, you never go back.  To not-cat, I mean.”

      “Yes!  When Skip and I have our little house, we might have a little dog, who may or may not be named Kip, but I think we should have a little cat, too because cats are brilliant and then we’d have one of each and it wouldn’t feel like we were taking sides.”

Lestrade began to think Arthur’s ‘little’ house might need an expansion.  Douglas began to think his _technique_ might need a little expansion and proceeded accordingly.

      “Now that we have established the animal magnetism of the feline species, let us return to more pressing topics.  Are you perhaps free tonight for a cocktail and a fabulous meal at one of London’s fine restaurants?  Or we can jet over to Paris for a stroll along the Champs-Élysées, if that tickles your fancy.  The sky’s the limit, and I do mean that literally.”

      “Of course, despite Shortlock’s whining, there’s a performance at the Opera House tonight and I have a box just waiting to be used.  Champagne, caviar, a late-night dinner at a cozy, out-of-the-way eaterie lit only by candlelight.  I think that’s more befitting such a refined and elegant lady.”

Arthur squeezed Lestrade’s hand tightly and the DI smothered a laugh.  Poor lad actually thought romance was going to blossom.  Truth be told, Sherlock might think so, too, if the appalled and terrified look on his face was to be believed.  However, Molly was a _practical_ woman.

      “I’d love to, for either of those, but I’ve got plans for tonight.”

Very easy let down.  Thank you for that Molly, since Douglas and Sam would be miserable to live with if their egos got kicked.

      “I’m free later in the week though, so… call me?”

Where was his mobile?  He needed to call Mycroft to have Molly taken away for that reverse brainwashing they did to former cult members.

      “I would be delighted.”

      “It would be my pleasure.”

      “I’m going to be sick.”

      “Mr. Sherlock… you do look a bit peaky.”

      “That seems to be my default condition within these four walls.”

__________

By the time she left, Molly and Lestrade only had a few more minutes of private time together, but it was enough for Lestrade to feel his heart soar from the genuine concern and dedication to doing anything necessary in order to recover from his situation.  He appreciated it, and he also would likely need it.  Molly… was good to talk to.  Optimistic, but realistic, too, and she wasn’t a part of the family group they’d formed.  Which was critical.  He was going to need the ear of friends who were dear, but not intimately tied to the London-Fitton enclave.  Molly, Anderson, Sally… they were going to be vital for when he simply could _not_ lay another problem at the feet of the people who had suffered his problems day in and day out, something that was already becoming a problem.  It felt like every minute of every day, _someone_ in their family was having to do _something_ for him that he couldn’t do himself, or step in to make sure he was in good health and good spirits.  That wasn’t true, of course, but that was still how he felt and it wasn’t pleasant.  For instance, someone had been in his room nearly every second today, keeping him company, which was nice, but he also knew they thought he _needed_ to be kept company and that wasn’t so nice.

      “My dear… have you fallen into a trance?”

But here was one person who hadn’t been here all day, and whose arrival settled a peace into Lestrade’s weary bones.

      “Maybe a small one.  Had a moment alone and decided to practice my auto-hypnotism.”

Lestrade gladly accepted the kiss his partner laid on his lips and held onto Mycroft’s shirt so it lasted a little longer than the middle Holmes had initially planned.

      “I see you are happy that I am home.”

      “Always.”

      “I hear from little birds that today was a pleasant, though busy, one.”

      “Did the little birds describe the aged and pathetic battle for the one female in the house?”

      “Yes, Arthur was quite happy to tell the tale, much to Sherrinford and Douglas’s displeasure.  Martin and John were quite upset that they were not present to witness the performance.”

      “I bet they were!  It was quite the show.”

      “And did _you_ enjoy yourself?  I know you are very fond of Ms. Hooper.”

      “I did, actually.  It was a… rewarding time.  She’s going to come back again next week and bring along some files to keep Sherlock busy so he doesn’t sulk.”

      “An admirable bit of forethought.  I am highly pleased you had an enjoyable visit, my dear.  It is good for you to spend time with your friends and colleagues.”

      “It’ll be better when I can meet them at the pub or, at least, sit on the sofa when they stop in to say hello.”

Mycroft ran a hand along Lestrade’s cheek and swore he could feel the so-called cabin fever flowing under his lover’s skin.

      “While the kitchen is currently under siege in preparation of the evening meal, would you care to take the stroll I have been promising?  It is a chilly night, but you do have a new wardrobe of mittens and hats to make the experience a toasty one.”

Lestrade laughed and pointed at his wheelchair.  Arthur had outdone himself with his shopping.  Nothing the boy purchased weighed less than a small car, though the color selection was surprisingly demur, staying solidly on the safe side of eye-searing.  A slow relocation to his chair was followed by a quick fitting with a jacket, hat, gloves and scarf, before the pair made their way out of the house, stopping only to announce their departure.

Once in the night air, Lestrade felt something loosen in his center and he could breathe a little easier.  This was absolutely what he needed…

      “I believe your smile is telling quite the tale, Gregory.”

      “This is perfect.  Well, walking hand in hand would be perfect, but this is fine for now.”

      “Baby steps, my love.  Besides it is far easier for me to do this…”

Mycroft leaned over to plant a kiss directly on the top of Lestrade’s head.

      “… with our current arrangement.”

      “Ok, there are _some_ benefits to it.”

      “A few.”

It mattered not if his fiancé was walking at his side or riding in his chair… to Mycroft, this was an enthralling experience.  Strolling with his lover on a crisp, moonlit night, sharing the news of the day, openly enjoying each other’s company and taking pleasure from the simplest of things… he had a small suspicion that his various neighbors were going to become quite familiar with seeing two figures walking at night past their doorsteps.

      “And here’s another one… push me really fast, then jump on my lap.”

With the occasional lapse into circus routines.

      “Gregory, do behave.”

      “What’s the fun in that?  I won’t have wheels forever, so we have to have our fun while we can.”

      “True, but perhaps we might indulge in a more sedate pace for our first outing.”

      “Oh fine… I can’t say this isn’t amazing, even without the extra speed.”

Lestrade looked up and smiled his winningest smile, which earned a quick bop on his nose as a reward.

      “Such is your masculine beauty that I find myself nearly willing to bend to your whims.  There is a small downslope not far from here and I am most certain you will appreciate being let go to race down like a runaway sled.”

      “Do it!  I’ll find something to crash into so I don’t go into the traffic.”

      “Fortunately there is little traffic along this path at night.  The car coming upon us could be one of, say, three we meet during our constitutional.”

      “I have nothing to complain about there.  The worst thing about my flat was the amount of…”

When the sharp, ear-splitting crack sounded, Mycroft felt no shame hurling himself across Lestrade to protect him from a second shot.  Which, thankfully, never arrived.  A quick look around saw his men racing towards him, hands on their radios and… slowing to a walk.  A quick round of hand signals pushed a short huff of breath out of Mycroft’s lungs, followed by a weak, but highly relieved laugh.

      “A backfire, my dear.  I do apologize for my unseemly overreaction.  Let us…”

Only then did Mycroft look Lestrade in the face, to see ghost white, sweat-glistened skin and wide glassy eyes staring back at him.

      “Gregory?”

      “C…can’t breathe.”

Mycroft swallowed his panic and waved his men to start running again when a harsh, ragged groan hit his ears and he saw Lestrade bend over, clutching at his chest.

      “It… it _hurts_.”

      “Gregory, you must tell me…”

Lestrade gritted his teeth to keep from yelling as the pain ripped through him and grabbed Mycroft’s arm as tightly as he tore at his own chest, trying desperately to bear the agony.

It was only a lifetime of training that allowed Mycroft to remain clear-headed, simply ordering the new arrivals to lift Lestrade, chair and all, and race him back to his home where there were waiting two people highly trained in handling emergency situations.  Such as a heart attack…


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur’s shriek was the least upsetting event as the door to Mycroft’s house burst open and men stormed into the residence, Mycroft’s voice yelling for Sam and John to come immediately.  Running faster than Sherlock had ever seen his partner move, John shot out of the kitchen, with Sam right on his heels, the rest of the household following rapidly, only to be blocked by a wall of bodies on Mycroft’s orders.

      “Mr. Sherlock…”

      “Apparently we have to wait for Mycroft to bring us information.”

Martin and Douglas clustered around Arthur while Sherlock tried to determine just how easy it would be to slip past the likely-armed men and make it into Lestrade’s room.  Fortunately, his ponderings quickly were brought to an end as Mycroft was forcibly removed from the sickroom by Sam, much to Mycroft’s highly vocal protest.  Gathering his dignity and dismissing his men, Mycroft stood in front of his very anxious guests and motioned them to the sitting room to begin their vigil.

      “Mycroft… what’s wrong?  Is Greg alright?”

The middle Holmes dropped into a chair and wished desperately he had some form of pleasant lie he could tell the highly-distressed steward.

      “No.  Rather… I honestly do not know.”

      “What happened?”

      “In truth, Sherlock… an idiotic event.  We were enjoying a simple walk and… at first I believed it to be a gunshot…”

Four figures leapt up from their seats and descended on Mycroft as if he were some form of prey item, but Mycroft shooed them away with an irritated wave of his hands.

      “ _Believed_ to be a gunshot… it was, actually, merely a car backfire, which occurred at close proximity to our location.  Gregory… I do not know exactly what… he could not breathe, he is experiencing chest pains…”

Arthur’s hands flew up to cover his ears and Martin quickly drew the steward into a firm hug.

      “You suspect a…”

Sherlock’s sentence was interrupted by a quick, cautioning shake of Douglas’s head, the First Officer clearly reading the expression on Mycroft’s face.  The man was scarcely holding himself together and putting a name to the potential crisis was not at all necessary.  Or merciful.

      “Greg can’t be hurt again!  He can’t!  He was doing so well and smiling and laughing and walking and NO!  He CAN’T be hurt again!”

Martin held Arthur more tightly and began whispering into his ear, hoping to diminish his fiancé’s level of stress.

      “Let us… John and Sherrinford are highly competent physicians.  I am certain they will do everything possible to make Gregory well, again.  We… we simply must be patient.”

Not that Mycroft had any choice.  He was not certain he could physically rise from his chair at this moment if the house erupted into flames.  His Gregory… he would never forget the look of utter terror in his lover’s eyes, no matter how long he lived.  The fear, the pain… and he could do nothing.  A real bullet he might have stopped with his own worthless form, but his lover’s shock was not something he could forestall.  He could do _nothing_ and his partner suffered grievously because, in that moment, he was powerless.  For all the influence he wielded, he could do nothing to prevent one heart from… no, he would not think of it.  He _could_ not or he would go mad.  Arthur was absolutely correct, his Gregory could not be hurt again.  It was not a concept he would permit to exist.  His fiancé was strong and stubborn and supremely devoted to the individuals in his life who would suffer terribly if he left them behind.  Gregory fought before and he would fight now, just as fiercely and for just as long.  He would not disappoint them.  He would _not_ allow the darkness to take him.  He would battle until his hand was clasped tightly around the throat of defeat, whereupon he would snap its neck and be done with the villain.  His Gregory would not falter, he would not fall.  He would _not_ … there was simply no other option…

__________

For what seemed like years, the sitting room was completely silent, except for Arthur’s soft sniffs, as he fought to keep himself from crying, something he knew he would not be able to stop once he started.  But the silence was so deafening, that not one person heard John and Sam enter the room and it took a pointed ‘ahem’ to get their attention, which came roaring at the pair, along with the five bodies they’d awakened.

      “Mycie… why don’t you come with me?”

Mycroft stared at his brother’s neutral face and felt a chasm open under his feet, which began to swallow him alive.  He had little memory of getting to his study, but he did hear the sound of the door closing, because, to him, it was as loud and final as the noise that had ripped the light out of his life.

      “Sherry…”

      “It wasn’t a heart attack, Mycie.    He’s going to be ok.”

The world around Mycroft slowed to a crawl and time stood absolutely still for a moment.  In that moment outside of time, Mycroft was able to stride forward and take his brother in a long, crushing hug that Sam gave back just as forcefully.

      “What happened?”

Sam loosened his grip as Mycroft pulled away, straightening his suit and tie to wipe away any traces of his loss of mental faculties.

      “Anxiety attack.  Panic attack.  Call it what you will.  Hard, unforgiving, painful and unstoppable.  I’m sure Greg thought he _was_ having a heart attack and that added to the problem.”

      “You are certain… he was in such horrible pain.”

      “I’m certain.  He did himself a little surface damage trying to pull his organs out of his chest and he’s going to be very sore tomorrow, but there’s no heart injury to worry about.  John and I have both seen this before and… it’s wonderful your patient isn’t dying, but you know they’re suffering miserably, nonetheless.  He’s going to sleep the rest of the night and I’m going to want to keep him quiet tomorrow so he can rebound a little.”

      “I will support you fully in that; Gregory has been disturbed to far too great a degree of late.”

      “I hate to agree, but you’re right.  I’ve not wanted to set visiting hours, because he really does benefit from the attention and positive energy, but… he’s had it rough the past few days and some time without hat parties is going to be helpful for him.”

      “He will not, however, be pleased.”

      “I know, but I’ll be the bad guy for this one.  Anyway, if I’m the one saying he needs a few days of peace and quiet, he’ll take it more seriously because that’s not something _I’m_ likely to push for, unlike you or John.  But, Mycroft… here, sit with me a minute.”

Mycroft did _not_ like the look on this brother’s face, because if Sherrinford was appearing concerned, there had to be a powerful reason for it.  Taking a seat on the sofa, the middle brother watched his older sibling carefully lower himself into a chair and waited for the boom to be lowered.

      “Tonight won’t push back Greg’s physical recovery, Mycie, but it’s… look, if this had been a real heart attack, it would have been pretty easy to convince Greg that the adrenaline surge set off a physical problem and it wasn’t something he could control.  He’d have been a physical mess, but at least he wouldn’t blame himself for the extra hit he took.  For this, though…”

The light suddenly went on in Mycroft’s very overtired mind and he did not even try to hide the evidence that he understood where this conversation was leading.

      “Gregory shall blame himself entirely.”

      “Oh yes.  You know what he’s going to think… he panicked under stress.  He’s unfit for duty.  He can’t be counted on in a crisis.  He’s a poor choice for command.  He’ll never get back on the job because he’s a danger to the other folks he works with.  You _know_ what’s going to go through his mind, even though he could no more control his reaction tonight than he could a real heart attack.  It’s not a character flaw or a sign of weakness, but we’re going to have a devil of a time trying to convince him of that.”

And Mycroft saw that with perfect clarity.  His Gregory would not show himself kindness for this issue.  He would be incalculably critical of his response, unutterably ashamed, inconsolably despondent over what he would be certain was the loss of his career…

      “What can we do?  Anything that is required you shall have, regardless of cost or hardship.”

      “One thing I know for sure, little bro, is that you won’t let anything stand in the way of Greg’s progress.  And, I’ve got a guy in mind for his mental treatment, so now might be the time to bring him in.  He’s worked with a lot of victims of violent crime, as well as returning soldiers and law enforcement types.  I think he’ll be a good fit for Greg, but if not, both John and I have other names we’ll bring in to find the right one to make Greg’s therapy successful.”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  I was aware Gregory would require counseling… I, however, was not aware of the depth of his need.”

      “He wasn’t either.  And what happened tonight may never happen again.  Or it could happen with something far less disturbing than a backfire.  Which I cannot figure out for a ritzy neighborhood like this.  Who owns a shitty enough car that they’d be backfiring down the gold-lined street you live on?”

      “I am certain I have no idea, however…”

      “That’s a pause that catches my interest.  Do go on.”

      “My BMW has demonstrated a hiccough on the very rare occasion.”

      “You have a bimmer?”

      “You seem surprised.”

      “I only found out today that you can drive.”

      “I am not completely bereft of basic skills.”

      “Didn’t say you were, but I do remember trying to put you behind the wheel of a staff car and you nearly threw a fit.”

      “You were suffering the aftereffects of severe intoxication and did not want to drive to the chemist yourself to obtain a sufficiently strong painkiller!”

      “The light was making my eyeballs fry.  And that was not the only time I tried to let you take the wheel for a little fun.”

No, it had not been.  Looking back, Mycroft could admit that was one of the few decisions he made with respect to his brother that was shortsighted.  Finding independence through driving was not something his parents had found entirely appropriate at the normal age one achieves their license, but he pursued his own course of studies with whatever vehicles he could access on their grounds. The ability to take himself, if only for an hour, away from the house, away from his obligations, was a great help to maintaining his calm when times were somewhat hectic. Sherrinford had tried several times to entice him into piloting a vehicle around the estate, but he had refused, often very vigorously. As an older boy, the activity held great appeal, however, at a very young age… well, perhaps his refusal to try had more to do with spiting his brother than an actual disinclination for the activity…

      “I will concede that my judgment as to the experience was a tad hasty.  For your information, Gregory and I greatly enjoy taking out my lovely vehicle for excursions.”

      “Little bro and his date out for a spin.  Pics or it didn’t happen.”

      “Actually…”

Mycroft walked over to his desk and withdrew a small flash drive from a drawer before motioning to his brother over to view the contents on his computer monitor.

      “I am afraid I have nothing to document our actual travel in the automobile, however, here is a lovely photograph of the two of us in front of my darling.  And several others with her in the background…”

Replaying the good times with himself and his fiancé settled some of the queasy unease in Mycroft’s stomach.  His Gregory had such a long, hard journey ahead of him… but there would not be a moment of it that would go unsupported by every resource it was possible to provide.

      “Ok, it happened.  And that is a damn fine automobile.  Suits you.  I am officially jealous.  Take it out often?”

      “On occasion.  Gregory and I enjoyed several outings before he was… before he was injured.  I am hopeful it shall be too long before we might begin to partake of such again.”

      “It’ll come.  I promise you, he’s going to get better and you’re going to do all of the things you want to do.  You _are_ going to look like this again.”

Sam pointed to a picture of Mycroft and Lestrade, standing close, smiling with an undeniable and easy joy.

      “That is my greatest hope… I can do much for Gregory, give much to him, but what I have come to value most highly is the ability to make him happy.”

      “That’s because you know what’s really important.  And you _do_ make him happy, Mycroft.  It might be harder to see that for the next few days, but trust that you do even if Greg’s… well, even if he’s not quite himself for a little while.”

      “I shall.  Though, I should mention… he had an emotional break last night which, I am certain, will not contribute to his overall self-image.”

      “Angry snarly one or big, blubbery one?”

      “The latter.”

      “Good blubbers or bad blubbers?”

      “Is it possible for you to speak like an adult?”

      “Answer the question.”

      “Good, on balance.  Some darker issues were addressed, but his tears were prompted foremost by positive feelings.”

      “Nice.  He’s going to have a lot of those while he recovers, both happy and unhappy, and they’re going to be helpful, even if it doesn’t feel that way at the time.”

      “And that was not his primary interpretation of the event.  He was not pleased with himself for crying.”

      “That’s because we teach boys that crying makes them weak.  That’s one of the many things I admire about Arthur, he isn’t afraid to let his emotions show.  But Greg grew up like most of us to think that tears are for girls and it’s a bad thing if we let them flow.”

      “True, however, I believe I did somewhat ameliorate his upset.  I do not want him to attempt to restrain his emotions when they are tied so intimately to his healing.”

      “That’s what I like to hear.  Really, that’s a great thing.  And you’re right… as much as his recuperation has a physical base, the emotional component is just as big.  And tonight was a huge knock to that.”

Mycroft gazed awhile at the photographs of himself and Lestrade, then let out a very large, exhausted sigh.

      “I shall be working from home tomorrow so that I might provide whatever assistance he shall need.”

      “That’s a good idea.  Try and keep everyone out of the room as much as possible and if he wants to talk, then talk.  If not, don’t push things but give him the look that says you understand that he doesn’t want to talk, but you know he _needs_ to and you’ll be there when he’s ready.”

Oddly, Mycroft knew precisely the look to which Sherrinford was referring.

      “It will be a priority of mine not to cause him further distress.”

      “A little nookie is ok, though.”

      “Deplorable.”

      “Aw, is the attraction already fading?  Not to worry, he’s actually starting to grow on me, so I’ll step in and keep his buns buttered.”

      “If I were not convinced of your heterosexuality, I would actually believe that of you.”

      “I could be bi.”

      “If so, it is a later-in-life realization, since I am well aware of both the nature of your youthful dalliances and your pornography collection.”

      “So it _was_ you who tossed out my porn.”

      “It was positively ghastly.  Both my mental and physical growth was stunted when I came upon it.”

      “I had that hidden pretty well, Mycie… fucking little snoop.”

      “I… required a pencil.”

      “From the loose plank at the back of my closet?”

      “The space was sufficiently large to fit a pencil.”

      “You’re going to start finding little surprises in those hidden safes of yours.  You might want to open them slowly and carefully…”

      “Do _not_ interfere with any of the contents of my safes.”

      “You interfered with my contents, so tit for tat.”

      “It was purloined pornography!”

      “You have your priorities and I have mine.”

      “Expect your flat to be furnished and provisioned no later than dawn tomorrow.”

      “Piffle.”

      “Piffle?”

      “Thought I’d sound like you for a change.  Peppy and piffly.”

      “I am not… that.”

Though, the statement was not entirely true.  His mood _had_ lightened and some measure of stability had returned to his mind.  More importantly, there was a glimmer of hope in his soul and for that… no, his brother had enjoyed quite enough attention for today.

      “You may lie for a living, Skinny, but that just proves the world is filled with stupid, stupid people, because you suck at lying.  You suck big time.”

The ridiculous, infuriating toddler may never be expunged from his brother’s personality, but the second of the Holmes siblings was slowly realizing that what hid behind the clownishness might become marginally tolerable with time.  A very, very great deal of time…

__________

Mycroft gently disentangled himself from Arthur once he and his brother left the study and excused himself to Lestrade’s room to spend the rest of the evening at his lover’s side.  John had informed the rest of the household as to the particulars of Lestrade’s condition and, with Sam and Mycroft’s backing, made it very clear that the Detective Inspector needed rest and visits must be short and quiet for the time being, setting the stage for an easy day to greet Lestrade tomorrow.  There would be peace, quiet and a continuous reminder of how dearly and deeply his fiancé was adored if Mycroft had any say in the matter.   Which he did and would commit his all to in the days to come.

And it was entirely unsurprising that Mycroft, himself, found little sleep during the night, though only a miniscule portion of the reason was the comings and goings of the medical arm of the family, maintaining a close watch on their patient, or the anxious faces that peeked in occasionally to make certain the Detective Inspector hadn’t been spirited away by evil demons in the night.  Much was his own need to stand guard over his partner and chase away any invading demons, which came occasionally in nightmare form, but could be thwarted by a gentle caress.  When the sun finally rose the next morning, Mycroft quickly showered, dressed and made himself ready for the moment his fiancé opened his eyes and the day officially began.  Unfortunately, he did not have to wait very long.

      “You’re home?”

      “It is earlier than you believe, my dear, however, I had previously planned on working from home, so I must regret to inform you that you shall have to suffer my presence for the day.  I hope that is not an inconvenience.”

Luckily, Mycroft’s mind was extremely adept at processing rapidly-presented information so he was able to gather the hundred emotions that flashed across Lestrade’s face and collate them into a manageable file.  Shameful relief was the leader by a hair, followed closely by unmodified shame and Mycroft drew in a silent, inner breath to fortify himself for the conversation that might commence.

      “No, that’s fine.”

What a bracing start to the unleashing of his lover’s emotional typhoon!

      “Good, I am happy you are content allow me to disturb your daily routine.  And, I shall create quite the disturbance if you would like…”

Despite a very practiced hand a flirtation, Mycroft forever questioned his skills in the presence of his fiancé, but that did not stop him from trying.  This result, however, was not heartening, as Lestrade sagged slightly at the touch of a hand running across his upper thigh.

      “I’m a little tired, actually.”

      “Of course, you had quite the day yesterday.  I am most certain your mind is still not fully functional from the sustained assault of Sherrinford’s appearance in his celebratory chapeau.”

      “Don’t coddle me, Mycroft.”

      “Was I coddling?  I shall make a note of it for future reference.”

      “Stop it.”

      “It would help if you informed me as to exactly what it is you would like me to stop.”

      “You know.  Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Mycroft attempt at a smile dimmed and he rubbed Lestrade’s leg again, this time in apology.

      “You are correct.  I did not wish, however, to start your day with any additional burden.  Would you like to discuss last night’s events?  I assume John and Sherry informed you of the situation.”

      “No, I _don’t_ want to talk about it.”

      “Very well, that is perfectly acceptable.  I shall be here for you when you do desire to explore what occurred and rest assured that I will provide for you whatever assistance I am able.  I love you dearly, Gregory, and…”

      “I’m a fucking coward; there’s not much to love about that.”

The sharp slap Mycroft wanted to deliver to Lestrade’s leg was held back only with a tremendous act of will, and a gentle pinch had to serve as the necessary rebuke.

      “That is a completely erroneous description of yourself and one given only because you are highly upset and your thinking is impacted by the stress.”

      “Oh, so I’m stupid, too.  Wonderful.”

      “And now you are being willfully disagreeable.  You suffered a tremendously disturbing event last night, Gregory.  One, for which, if you remember correctly, _I_ demonstrated a very vigorous and inappropriate response.”

      “You tried to protect me.  I just fell apart and god help you if there _was_ a real danger, because I wouldn’t have been able to do anything!”

      “You were battered by a maelstrom of response hormones and your body has not…”

      “Don’t blame any of that!  I’ve been in tough spots before and that never happened!  I’ve lost it!  I’ve lost my edge and…”

Lestrade gritted his teeth and turned his head away from Mycroft who wished he knew the magic words to take away his lover’s pain.

      “Gregory…”

      “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Though he’d apparently forgotten that during his outbursts.  Mycroft gave his fiancé’s thigh a comforting pat and settled back again in his chair.

      “Then we shall not.  I am here to support you in any manner, my dear, and that does include respecting your wishes on this issue.  We shall speak of pleasant topics only, or enjoy the silence as we engage in our own pursuits.”

      “Ok.”

      “Very good.  And is there any particular pursuit for which I might offer assistance at the moment?  I know you enjoy taking in the news after waking so may I offer you a selection of the newspapers or find a broadcast to your liking?”

      “Not right now.”

      “As you wish.  I shall be available when you are ready.”

Mycroft returned one eye to the files he was perusing, and kept the other on his partner, who was beginning to fidget.

      “Gregory?”

      “Nothing.”

      “ _Gregory_?”

      “I need to piss.”

      “Shall I erect a target to direct your aim?”

He didn’t want to, but Lestrade started laughing instead of rolling deeper into the anger, frustration and humiliation that was threatening to drown him.

      “No, we can save that for when the others aren’t here and we can have a contest.”

      “I do thrive on competition.  Let us see you safely to the toilet and back so we might discuss the matter further.”

Lestrade took a deep breath to try and shove down the spike of shame he felt for… so very much… and slowly moved his legs over the side of the bed, wincing sharply as he did so.

      “You will be experiencing a greater level of pain today and that is perfectly normal.  However, if it becomes too difficult to manage, I shall see you are given something to help.”

      “I’m fine.  And, Mycroft… I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t take any of this out on you.”

      “If it helps relieve some of your distress, then I am honored to be taken.  Oh dear, that was a tad more licentious than I had planned.”

Mycroft’s teasing smile told a very different tale and Lestrade loved his partner all the more for it.

      “You’re a bad man, Mr. Holmes.”

      “I exist to please.”

__________

Despite the brief lightening of the mood, after Lestrade was returned to his bed, he lapsed into a somber silence that Mycroft ached to witness, but felt powerless to change.  The small breakfast he provided interrupted the room’s atmosphere only until he took away the dishes, when his partner’s eyes darkened again and remained fixed on the television screen which was set to some mindless daytime offering.  They darkened further into a nearly fearful look when there was a small knock on the door.

      “Greg?  It’s me, Arthur.  Can I… can I come in?”

Lestrade looked at Mycroft who quietly assured him that he was free to refuse the request.  After a moment, the Detective Inspector shook his head and shuffled a little in the bed.

      “Sure, Arthur.  I’d love to see you.”

Arthur tiptoed into the room and gave a little wave, which drew a honest smile from the ailing man.

      “Doctor Sam said we had to be quiet if we visited, so I’m going to use what mum calls my ‘I’ve got a perishing headache and you may have one guess as to who is the cause of it, Arthur Shappey’ voice.”

      “That’s very kind of you.  I _am_ a little beaten down today and the quiet is… helpful.”

      “Well, I’m not surprised!  Oh, that wasn’t very quiet was it?  Anyway, Doctor Watson said you felt as if you were having a real heart attack, which he said can hurt very much, and you had to have been scared while it happened, which would make you feel even worse.  I know I’d be scared if I was having a heart attack, because there’s not much you can do if you don’t have a heart, so it’s not as if it gives out you can go on with whatever it was you were doing.  I know that for a fact, too, because… well, you didn’t do _anything_ after your heart stopped, and I watched very closely, so I consider myself an expert on hearts that don’t work.”

Mycroft took Lestrade’s hand and gave it a squeeze to acknowledge the distress his partner was doing a nearly masterful job concealing.  Today, perhaps, was not the best day for the proverbial stroll down memory lane.

      “And Gregory is quite fortunate, for if that particular situation again arises, you shall notice immediately.”

      “I will!  Even if we’re having a phone-telly chat, I’ll know right away and get right to getting Greg some help.”

      “And he shall be happy to do the same for you.”

      “Brilliant!  Well, we’ve got that sorted.  I must admit I feel much better, even if I didn’t realize I was worried in the first place!”

Arthur then launched into an excited summary of the day’s proposed agendas and Lestrade tried to coax himself into relaxing.  Quiet _was_ helpful because even this bit of visiting was difficult.  He wanted to scurry under the bed and hide from Arthur’s jolly, well-intentioned conversation, as well as the eyes that would never judge, but… that’s not how it felt at the moment.  Fortunately, Mycroft was more than happy to carry on his part of the discussion for him and Arthur was more than happy to… talk.  After a time that noticeably saddened Arthur by its short duration, Mycroft suggested a respite for his partner and the steward bid a slow farewell, replete with numerous assurances he’d visit again later and a gentle hug for the man in the bed.

      “Always a delight.  It is rather a shame I cannot clone young Arthur and install the copy here permanently, but I do not believe it is fair to compromise the uniqueness of the boy.”

      “And Martin would try to kill you if you went through with the plan.”

      “Hmmm, perhaps that is a minor factor in my thinking.  Now, would you like to return to your program or shall I retrieve your tablet or laptop?”

      “Just the telly is fine.”

      “Very good.  Do alert me when you require a beverage or other refreshment.”

      “You don’t have to wait on me, Mycroft.”

      “Have to, no.  Desire to, yes.  Return to your entertainment, Gregory or you shall find yourself faced with something sweet and creamy to wrestle into your mouth.”

      “Being licentious again?”

      “No, but I shall gleefully adjust my intention.”

      “Nah, I’m still tired.”

      “Then I will schedule the adjustment for a later date.”

Mycroft pointedly ignored his partner so as not to appear coddling, and Lestrade smiled tiredly.  He was blessed to have a fiancé like Mycroft.  He just wished he could be someone worthy of a man like that…

__________

As his partner was waking from a small, much-needed nap, Mycroft was not happy to see that his mobile was begging his attention and even less happy that the call was coming from a number that meant ill tidings for his hope of a quiet afternoon at home.

      “If you will excuse me, my dear?  I shall return with a nice cup of tea to recompense you for my rudeness.”

Lestrade cocked his head in what Mycroft felt was a charming fashion despite its confusedness and the middle Holmes gave his lover a kiss before he left the room.  Taking the call quickly erased whatever contented feeling Mycroft possessed and he wished mightily that he could hurl the infernal device into the wall.

      “Problem?”

And, of course, the infernal device summons the even more infernal Sherrinford to enact retribution for its near fate.

      “A matter of work.  It is… nothing.”

      “No, it’s not and don’t try to tell me different.  When do you need to leave?”

Evil man.

      “Soon.  As soon as possible, preferably, however… Gregory is not… he is not well.”

      “No, he’s not, but you still have to go.”

      “I do.  But… he _needs_ me, Sherrinford.  Today has been brutally harsh for him.”

      “And if you were a different man that would be the end of the story, but you’re not and sometimes you’re going to have to make hard choices.  He’s not dying, Mycroft, and, no matter what, Greg’s going to have to get used to the fact that you’re going to have to put both him _and_ you second to your work more times than he can count.”

      “But this… his emotional state…”

      “Does it change the fact you have to leave?”

      “No, but… no.  It does not.”

      “Alright, then.”

      “Why are you huddling?”

The older siblings turned to glare at the youngest Holmes, who readily glared back.

      “Bug off, baby.”

Sherlock’s rude noise actually impressed both Mycroft and Sam.

      “Sherlock… there is no conspiracy, if that is your concern.  I was simply informing Sherrinford that I must depart and I am not certain when I will be able to return.”

      “You would leave Lestrade alone?”

      “I have no other choice.”

      “Lestrade will not be pleased.”

      “I am well aware of that.”

      “He will feel abandoned.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.”

      “That cannot be conducive to a successful recovery from this latest incident.”

      “Again, you have my thanks.”

      “Jesus, you both are pitiful.  Come on, the pair of you.  Just follow my lead and if you screw this up, I’ll be using your ass as a bike rack.”

Sam grabbed Mycroft and Sherlock and stormed through Lestrade’s door, releasing the bickering duo just as he crossed the threshold so Lestrade didn’t take notice.

      “I actually _do_ think a terrorist threat is enough reason for you to go in to work, you piece of crap.  I’d actually like to move into my apartment _before_ it’s the victim of a dirty bomb or something.”

Mycroft snapped into character and paid no attention to the fact that his brother had deduced somewhat the nature of the situation, though… no, Sherrinford likely deduced the whole of the situation, but personalized it to London for effect.  Evil, evil man.

      “There are others who can manage the situation.”

      “What!  Wait… was that what your call was about?”

As predicted, Lestrade went immediately on alert and Mycroft only hated himself slightly for the deception.

      “It is of no consequence, Gregory.  Now, shall we return to our relaxation?”

      “Your laziness knows no bounds.  However, if the threat was to a buttercream distributor, we would not be able to keep you in the house.”

      “Sherlock… it is a minor matter…”

      “Sam and Sherlock don’t think so!”

      “Gregory… I have promised the day to you and the day you shall have.  Oh dear, I forgot your tea.  One moment…”

      “Damn the tea!  Mycroft… be honest with me.  Is this serious?”

Finally, a chance to at, at minimum, make a nod towards honesty.

      “Very well.  Yes, the situation is a serious one.”

      “Then you can’t stay here!  You’ve got to do something!  They wouldn’t have called you if you weren’t the right man for the job.”

      “My dear…”

      “No, you can’t ignore something just because I’m a little off center, Mycroft.  You need to go and do your job.  I won’t have it any other way.”

And now the decision was squarely his lover’s to own, which would make him far happier about their separation.  Sherrinford was a supremely evil… but occasionally useful, man.

      “I cannot convince you otherwise?”

      “Not a chance.  I’ll be alright, so don’t even think about me until this is over.  Go on, now.  Don’t make me kick you out of the house.”

And Lestrade’s Holmes-worthy glare clinched the deal.  Mycroft quickly gave his lover a kiss, then made his way out of the room, promising himself that the death his brother would suffer for the last-second, clandestine bum pinch would be protracted and agonizing.

      “Dumbass.  He knows he’s got shit to do and…”

      “Hey!  Mycroft’s trying to be a proper fi… partner.  Don’t say nasty things about him, you sad excuse for a human being.”

Lestrade prayed to whatever god would listen that Sherlock missed the near slip of the tongue, but the detective’s slightly narrowed eyes made that an unlikely possibility.

      “Ok, ok… I’m sorry.  I forget he’s a big diaper baby in love with his daddy.”

      “I hope you don’t plan on Molly playing that game with you.”

      “That wasn’t actually on my list of options, but thanks for the advice anyway.  Anyway, heavy-duty role playing is something I reserve for the _second_ date.”

      “Molly Hooper would rather spoon out her eyeballs with her cat litter scoop than lay them on you again.”

      “It’s ok to feel jealous of me, Sherlock.  Most people are.”

      “Leave.”

      “No.”

      “You are bothering Lestrade.”

      “You are bothering my butt.”

      “Go.”

      “No.  Hey, that rhymed!”

Under no circumstances would he leave until… ok, Sherlock’s brain was now fully in protective mode.  That just might be what his patient needed at the moment.

      “I will evict you if necessary.”

      “That is something I would very much like to see you try, Sporelock, but, as it happens, I need to make a few calls of my own and Arthur’s probably dithering to pieces because Skinny left.  Gregster, I’ll check on you later.  Try not to do anything disgusting in the meantime.”

      “No promises.”

      “You and Sherlock deserve each other.”

Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock saw Sam’s grin as he left them alone in the room and he was thankful for it.  It was going to be very interesting to see what this particular stewpot had to offer after it simmered awhile and he didn’t want to do anything at this point to turn down the heat.

      “I am beginning to think Mycroft wasted his money hiring me to find Sherrinford.  Not that he actually paid me for my efforts.”

      “Did he ever pay Sam for _his_ work?”

      “Not that I am aware.”

      “Seems to be the pattern.  Don’t worry, I’ll see you get something especially nice for Christmas.”

      “Mycroft’s absence will be sufficient.”

      “You and Sam are like twins!”

      “That has lost you any hope for a Christmas gift of your own.”

      “I’m hurt.  Now… look, if you don’t mind…”

      “If you are going to attempt my removal from the room, consider your efforts already wasted.”

Sherlock dropped into a chair and arranged himself to repel boarders.

      “Sherlock…”

      “You are to be kept quiet and relaxed today and I am the only one remaining to ensure that.  John does not count because he is charged with keeping peace in the rest of the house.”

      “I don’t need to be kept _anything_.”

      “Do not dissemble.  You are physically drained and emotionally-compromised, likely plagued with a loss of self-worth and a surfeit of shame for what you perceive as a failure to comport yourself appropriately during a threat.  Rest, both physical and mental are warranted for someone, unlike me, who is prone to wasting valuable energy on pointless matters associated with… _feelings_.”

Lestrade tried desperately to force down the water rising in his eyes and knew he failed from the shadow that raced across Sherlock’s face.

      “You are foolish.”

      “You’re a good friend, Sherlock.”

      “You mean that sarcastically, however, I believe myself to be a very good friend.  The model of a ‘good friend’ is based on a foundation of honesty and the willingness to point out areas for which there is cause for concern.  That is what I did.”

If he wasn’t worried Sherlock wouldn’t return his pillow this time, Lestrade would have hurled the down-filled missile right at the curls on the younger man’s head.  Bastard.  Sherlock was a miserable bastard and the fact he was right did not make one bit of difference.  Much.

      “I don’t want to talk about it.”

      “John would say that talking is therapeutic.”

      “John can shove it up his arse.”

      “I shall pass along your suggestion.  Now, let us begin.”

      “Go away.”

      “Hmmmm… no.  You need to be shown the flaws in your thinking and I am the only one qualified to do so.  Now, I suspect the root of your delusion lies in your role as a law enforcement official.  True or false?  No, don’t bother to answer.  I already know it is true and you would only lie if I allowed you to speak.”

      “Stop that!”

      “Oh, very well.  You may answer the question.”

      “I don’t want to.”

      “Then why can I not provide the answer for you?  It _is_ the correct one.”

      “STOP THAT!”

      “You are not remaining quiet and relaxed.”

      “I am going to wring the life out of you!”

      “Doubtful.  So back to our discussion.  I propose that you now lack confidence that you can properly perform your duties for…”

      “OF COURSE I DO!”

Lestrade’s roar practically shook the walls and Sherlock hoped that nobody was near the door to be knocked unconscious by the shockwave.

      “You admit it.”

      “I’m a detective!  A fucking _Detective Inspector_ and I panicked!  I completely lost control of myself!  I… I disgraced myself completely and that means… I can never, ever put people at risk because I can’t be trusted!  Do you understand that!  I disgraced myself, Sherlock.  I showed my colors and they’re not a banner I’m proud to fly.  I’m a coward!  A fucking car backfires and I FALL TO PIECES!”

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s wrists to stop his hands ripping at his hair and held on as the older man fought against him, releasing a large burst of furious energy.  Only when Lestrade had exhausted himself completely did Sherlock let go and, after a moment’s hesitation, took a seat on the edge of the bed.

      “That was not wise in terms of your health.”

      “Shut up.”

      “I fail to take your direction at the best of times, why do think I will do so now?”

      “What do you want, Sherlock?  Just t… tell me, so I can give it to you and you can go away.”

      “I have no intention of leaving, so remove that as a reason for you to tell me anything but the truth.”

      “I told you the truth, what more do you want?”

      “The chance to show you how stupid you are.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and Sherlock was very glad for it, since Lestrade couldn’t see his reaction to the slip of water down the Detective Inspector’s cheeks.

      “But I do not mean that unkindly.”

      “That’s the only way to take it.”

      “No… no it is not.  A moment ago, you could not break my grip.  Why was that the case?”

      “I’m old, I’m getting fat…”

      “Tedious.  Focus on the relevant facts.  Your strength is diminished due to gross injury, lack of activity and exhaustion.  Do you believe you are ready, this instant, to take up your duties with your team?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Why not?”

      “And you call _me_ stupid.”

      “Answer the question.”

      “Fine.  Because I’m not ready.  My body’s not _nearly_ ready to… I can barely walk to the loo and back!”

      “Your argument is that your body is not sufficiently healed to conduct yourself in a manner your job requires, is that correct?”

      “It’s not my argument… it’s _the_ argument.  I’ve barely started recuperating!  It’s going to take a lot of time and effort before my body’s in shape to go back to work.”

      “Then why are you expecting your mind to have already completed the task?”

Lestrade cut his eyes towards Sherlock, wary of any attempt at verbal trickery.

      “What are you talking about?”

      “When you were injured, that injury had physical, mental and emotional components.  I fail to see why you believe the latter two should recover immediately, when you admit the physical injuries will require time to heal.”

      “It’s not like that.”

      “It is exactly, as you say, like that.  As you are expecting your body to heal and strengthen, though it is in deplorable condition now, why do you not expect and admit the same for your mental and emotional well-being?  Though you might be heavily impaired at this time, that is no guarantee that you will remain so.  You are using your current status as the model for your future behavior and that is as stupid as if you declared yourself forever physically precluded from your job because you are not yet able to walk more than a handful of steps.”

Now it was Lestrade’s whole head facing Sherlock as he tried to sort through the points the detective was making.

      “What are you saying?”

      “That castigating yourself for a reaction when you are not expected to behave in your normal fashion is as ridiculous as berating yourself for failing to overpower me when you are not physically capable of doing so.”

Sherlock studied the various changes in Lestrade’s expression and was pleased Lestrade seemed to finally grasp the validity of his argument.

      “I suppose that’s… worth considering.”

      “It is and you should begin immediately.”

For the first time since Mycroft left, Lestrade felt himself at least coming close to _wanting_ to smile.

      “Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

      “If it helps, I will promise to make my own assessment of your readiness prior to your applying to return to your duties.  I will be honest about my findings.”

Lestrade had to admit that wasn’t the worst of all possible ideas.

      “Thanks, Sherlock.  That’s actually reassuring.”

      “With access to John’s firearm, I will be able to test your responses and score your performance.”

      “No.  You will not illegally discharge John’s gun!”

      “Why not?  It’s not as if I haven’t done it before.”

      “Sherlock…”

      “Consider it a summative examination.  If you pass, you are fit.  If you fail, you are not.”

      “You plan on giving me a heart attack to see if I have a heart attack?”

      “Panic attack.  An entirely different pathology.”

      “Oh god…”

      “If praying is beneficial to you, by all means continue.  Ignoring you is a simple thing to accomplish.”

Sherlock lifted Lestrade’s tablet and began to search for details on deposition rates of heavy metals in body hair, making very certain Lestrade believed himself off the immediate radar.  Not that Sherlock would let that happen, of course.  There was a great deal wrong with the DI and he needed to remain vigilant that darker thoughts did not take root and prompt another outburst or cause a descent into a depressive event that would further discourage him from thinking logically about his future.  This was a task for which he, personally, was very well-suited and he would undertake it fully.  Tea would be nice, however.  And John.  And some of his own reassurance that he was not making matters worse for the person he was actually trying to help…

__________

Mycroft moved quietly through the house, knowing it would be several hours more until the household was awake.  What an immensely trying day… it was a very good thing that the world population was blissfully ignorant of the true frequency of threats to their safety and liberty, elsewise the frenzied rioting would accomplish what those threats had so far failed to do.  However, it was part of the job he did so well that their ignorance remained intact, as did their well-being, the latter being first and foremost on his mind as he slowly opened Lestrade’s door to peer inside.

      “Stop haunting the passageway.  You are not a bemused spirit.”

      “And good evening… morning… to you, Sherlock.  Taking a turn at Gregory minding?”

      “The sole turn.  Without my efforts, your intended would have dropped into a pit of despair that reached to the Earth’s core.”

There was far too much in that sentence for Mycroft to tackle at once, so he took the mature approach of addressing his love life first.

      “Gregory is not my intended.”

      “I would suggest, then, that you not share that information with him.  I do not believe it would promote an improvement in his mental health.”

      “He… he told you?”

      “No, but now _you_ have and my suspicions are confirmed.”

Mycroft counted to ten and found it only irritated him further, as Sherlock’s mocking smirk grew larger and larger.

      “You are not to reveal that information to anyone.  Gregory and I have decided to postpone our announcement until after Martin and Arthur’s wedding.”

      “Something I find odd, since you take every possible opportunity for self-aggrandizement.”

      “Do not detour the family’s attention and exuberance from the upcoming nuptials, Sherlock.”

      “To _which_ nuptials are you referring?”

      “Sherlock…”

      “Very well.  On this one issue, you may be assured of my silence.”

      “Thank you.”

      “If it means anything to you… I approve.”

Hopefully, the shock of Sherlock’s pronouncement was not evident on his face, because Mycroft was certain it would simply annoy the boy who was actually being supportive, in contrast to his typically childish and denigrating nature.  Mean anything to him… his brother’s words meant _everything_ to him…

      “It does, brother.  It means a great deal to me, as I am certain it will to Gregory.  Have you broached the subject with him yet?”

      “No, I did not… if I was incorrect, I did not want to distress him further.”

      “Another thing for which you have my thanks.  How was his day?”

Sherlock shrugged and it was only then that Mycroft noticed the string linking his brother’s arm with his fiancé’s.

      “Agreeable, for the most part.  Firstly, I detailed quite succinctly why he was an idiot for his self-hatred and he accepted my reasoning.  Once that matter was settled, I ensured he was able to gain the rest he needed between visitations, which I approved only rarely.”

The middle Holmes wanted desperately to examine the exact content of Sherlock and Lestrade’s potentially explosive discussion, but chose to set his curiosity aside for now as not even Sherlock could conceal his thoughts if matters had taken a disastrous turn.

      “Excellent.  May I ask why you are tied to… my fiancé as if he is the dock and you are the raft?”

Oh, how lovely the f-word sounded when said aloud.

      “Lestrade stubbornly refused my help when he required a trip to the loo and… did not fare well making the journey alone.  This way, that particular situation is avoided.”

Again, Mycroft wanted to dissect every detail of his lover’s time with Sherlock, but too much scrutiny would imply a lack of trust in his brother and that was absolutely unacceptable.  Sherlock had spent a day taking on responsibilities belonging to _him_ and, from what he could observe, performing admirably in the role.  That was worth congratulating, not questioning.

      “He _is_ rather stubborn when the mood takes him.”

      “Which it does frequently.”

      “I cannot disagree.  However, I am gladdened he was being tended to by someone who was willing to take proper action to ensure his safety, regardless.”

      “The wailing and weeping that would ensue were Lestrade to suffer another downturn was too upsetting to contemplate.  The distraction from my work would make the entire day wasted.”

      “Yes, it is quite the effort to concentrate with the drenching of mournful tears and piercing cries of the bereaved.”

      “I am glad you understand.  Now, I am going to go and wake John so he may prepare tea.”

      “Is there a reason you cannot perform the task yourself?”

      “John has been able to laze away the day, while I tended to the vital matters.  He would enjoy the opportunity to demonstrate his gratitude for my considerate behavior.”

      “Oh yes, John does appreciate the opportunity to properly reward you for being where he is not.”

Sherlock untied the string around his wrist and handed the free end to his brother.

      “Try not to undo my progress with him.”

In the next instant, the detective had departed and Mycroft gently freed Lestrade from his makeshift arm-lasso.  Settling in the chair Sherlock had vacated, the middle brother simply gazed at his sleeping lover and let the peace of the moment begin to wash away the day’s frustrations.  His Gregory was safe, resting and doing so after a day tied, quite literally, to Sherlock.  There must be _some_ calm to his partner’s mind for this to happen and that was his own reward for a day separated from the one he loved so dearly.

Toeing off his shoes and opening his valise to remove some papers requiring his attention, Mycroft settled in for what work he could accomplish before Lestrade woke from his sleep.  At that point, the whole of his attention would be for the man he was going to marry.  The forecast was for rain, but a rainy day held its own appeal.  The warmth of a shared blanket, the stimulation of a film new to each of them, the satisfaction of a kiss taken from firm and eager lips… what a decadent way to while away the hours.  And, if his Gregory wished to talk, wouldn’t the stage be nicely set for a comforting, supportive conversation.  Baby steps they might be taking, and through a vast and virulent minefield, but each one was bringing them closer to their goals…


	18. Chapter 18

Today was brilliant!  Greg had smiled a real smile this morning, not the sort-of smile he was smiling yesterday, Mycroft was going to be at home all day and that would make Greg smile even more, which was making _him_ smile thinking about it.  As long as Greg kept smiling real smiles, he was continuing to get better and that meant the wedding was going to happen exactly on schedule and what could be more brilliant than that!

      “Arthur, you’re about to walk into a tree.”

Arthur startled out of his reverie and stopped, finally seeing the large tree directly ahead of him.

      “Thanks, Skip!  You wouldn’t think of a park as being dangerous, but with trees and ponds… I’ve had a few worrisome moments, to say the least!”

Martin smiled and shook his head, adoring that with all that had happened to his fiancé, Arthur still considered trees and ponds to be potential sources of jeopardy.

      “And I’ll do my best to keep you safe every time we take a walk.  Though, I think that with your invention, your brain is safe, at least.”

Arthur grinned and patted the large, knit cap on his head.

      “It does seem to be working, doesn’t it?”

      “That it does, though, you still have to figure out what to do when it has to eat or go for walkies.”

Arthur removed his hat to reveal the small stuffed cat perched on top of his head.

      “Well, you _would_ have to stop for little breaks.  Besides, your cat would want to sightsee, too, and they can’t do that when they’re in their hat.  Maybe there should be a hole for him to see through.”

      “A small one might be a smart idea.  That would allow them to see but might not let too much cold in.  Or make it easy for them to escape if they see a bird.”

      “Which is _very_ important.  Part of the reason for my Arthur’s Cat in the Hat is your cat can have a nice stroll and still be toasty warm.  And keep _your_ head warm, too.  The escaping is very definitely not something that can happen, though.  If people’s cats were running off, I’d feel terrible and have to try to find them and I’m not sure how I could be a steward, a detective’s assistant and a doctor’s assistant and a husband and have time left over to find the poor missing cats.  Maybe Mr. Sherlock would help me. ”

      “Well, when you actually make your own, you can try a few different designs, because you’re right.  You _are_ going to be a busy man.  Especially with the husband part.  All the walks in the park, nights on the sofa watching the telly…”

There was nothing in the world more wonderful, in Martin’s mind, than Arthur Shappey lit up like a candle with happiness.

      “Yes!  I’m not going to lie, Skip, not that I can anyway, but especially this time… being your husband is going to be brilliant.  Skip Brilliant, actually.  Or even more, which I don’t have a word for yet, but I’m going to think of something because this really does deserve a word all its own.  As much as I don’t want to leave London, I _do_ want to go back to Fitton and bring at least some of my things to Mycroft’s little house so we can start being husbands.  Well, I suppose I can’t actually say that yet, but it’s not much of a fib since we _are_ going to be husbands, it’s just going to take a few more weeks to get the job done properly.”

      “I don’t think anyone is going to penalize you for being a little early on the labels, love.  We _are_ going to have to start looking for a place to live, though.  It’s nice that we have some time to find something that fits our budget, but it has to be done, nonetheless.”

      “Couldn’t we rent Mycroft’s little house once Mycroft isn’t renting the little house?”

If they had stacks of money under their pillows, yes.

      “Arthur, the rent for that area can’t be low.”

      “But it’s a _little_ house.”

      “That is well-maintained, has all the conveniences, a nice bit of property and is in a surprisingly lovely part of town.”

      “And?”

      “And?”

      “It’s _little_ , Skip.  Little and cute and snuggly…”

      “Which is why a young couple or maybe some retired folk would want it.  And be willing to pay for it.”

      “Oh.  Yes, I suppose that’s true.  That’s alright.  We’re going to find something just as amazing and live happily ever after.”

And Arthur really believed that, Martin knew.  His fiancé had faith that no matter what, they would live happily ever after and, regardless of how it chafed the pilot, since he knew life didn’t necessarily work that way, there was no force in existence that could make Martin pop Arthur’s bubble.

      “If you’d like, I’ll ask Mycroft which agent found him the house and maybe they can help us find a flat.  They did a good job for him, so I’m sure they can do the same for us.  How does that sound?”

      “Brilliant!  That’s a great idea, Skip!  I’m sure we’ll find something perfect and it’s all going to be… I can’t even describe it!”

Though the wide smile and tight hug Arthur was giving his stuffed cat really said all there was to say on the subject.

      “I’m anxious for it to happen, too.  Of course, telling Caroline we’re getting an early start on the living together part of that situation isn’t exactly something I’m anxious to do, but…”

      “Silly Skipper… I honestly don’t think Mum will mind and, besides, Douglas can tell her how nice Mycroft’s house is, so she won’t worry about us living in something that’s decidedly not brilliant with no shower or windows.”

      “You’re probably right.  We _will_ have to start thinking about furniture, though.  I don’t think Greg has enough to furnish Sam’s flat and ours, too.”

      “Shopping!”

      “On _our_ bank cards, Arthur.”

      “Boo!”

      “Arthur…”

The steward laughed and added Martin to the hug with his cat.

      “I’m joking, Skip.  You need to laugh more and enjoy jokes.  You’re so handsome when you smile and laugh that I’d tell you jokes every day just to see you happy and giggly.  Anyway, we have what’s in my room and your flat, which is a start.  And Mum’s got lots of furniture, so I’m sure she wouldn’t put up too much of a fuss if we took a little for our new flat.”

Actually, Martin thought Carolyn would mind a great deal if they pilfered her furnishings, since she didn’t really have the money to replace them, but since nothing on that score was going to happen for awhile, the discussion could be happily postponed until later.

      “Perhaps you’re right, but we can talk about that when we actually find a place.  Now, what’s next on your list?  We tested your Cat in the Hat idea…”

      “Which worked brilliantly.”

      “Which absolutely worked brilliantly.  I’m sure Molly will be very happy when you present her with your final product.  We went to some of the cake shops Greg found…”

      “Which were brilliant.”

      “Which were most certainly brilliant and I think you might know the one you want, correct?”

      “I may.”

Said with a creeping grin that was still faintly dusted with whatever pearlescent material was in the frosting that Arthur sampled and pronounced to be ‘just like clouds if clouds could be fairytale characters, which they absolutely should be able to be since fairytales had dragons and talking brooms and clouds were at least as real as those, if not even more real!’  It also helped that the proprietor seemed to share Arthur’s enthusiasm for life and appreciation for the more whimsical side of it.  The number of photos she took of Arthur’s engagement bracelet alone was positively silly.

      “Now, all you have to do is decide on the details and what flavor you want the cake to be and that’s one thing off your list.”

      “Hurray!”

      “Though… you do know we need to decide where to get married, right?  London or Fitton?  That’s going to make a difference, since if you make a lot of plans with companies in London, they’re going to have to transport everything to Fitton for the ceremony and reception.”

      “Oh.  Yes, that is true.”

Martin led Arthur over to a bench and had a seat, tugging slightly on Arthur’s hand to encourage him to follow suit.

      “You’re worried about that, aren’t you, Arthur?”

      “Worried… that’s not exactly it.  It’s more that I want everyone there and that’s a bit hard since everyone either lives in London _or_ Fitton and I’m afraid that someone won’t come if they have to travel, especially with the party we’re going to have afterwards.  You remember our last party, Skip… we didn’t go to bed until _very_ late.”

      “That’s true.  And I’m certain people are going to expect another spectacular party from us since this is for a wedding.”

      “Oh, I know they will.  So that’s why I’m… well, maybe I _am_ a little worried.”

      “Don’t worry too much, ok?  I expect this is a problem a lot of couples have, so I wouldn’t feel too upset about it.  We’ll ask Carolyn for advice, as well as someone here who’s actually rational, like John, and I have no doubt we’ll come to the best possible decision.”

      “Thanks, Skip!  You always know what to say to make me feel better when my brain’s gone a bit runny.”

Not that Martin would in any fashion ask what it meant to have a runny brain.

      “You’re welcome.  Now, I never got to hear what’s next on your list, so let’s hear what you’ve got planned.”

      “Well, I thought we could find one of those shops that has coffee with chocolate in it topped with whipped cream that has chocolate on it and then go back to look at the invitations you said were actually nice and not fit only for royalty.”

      “You mean the shop that lets you send photos and they make cards out of them and have rubber stamps that you can play with?”

      “Yes!  I’m already thinking about Christmas.  Won’t it be brilliant to have cards with our pictures on them and maybe our cat and dog in front of the tree…”

      “We are _not_ getting a cat and dog, Arthur.”

      “What if they’re very small?”

      “What if the flat we rent doesn’t allow pets?”

      “Boo!”

      “That’s two boo’s today, Arthur.  I think that’s a record.”

      “If the flat lets us have pets, then can we get them?”

      “We can talk about it.”

      “And we can name them Kip and Kit.”

      “ _Talk_ about it, Arthur.”

      “They can wear elf hats for the Christmas photos.”

      “ _Talk about it_ …”

      “Talk about what?”

      “About your chocolate coffee.”

      “Oh, can we get that now?”

      “It’s our very next stop.”

__________

      “It’s time to leave.”

      “And hello to you, too, Sherlock.”

      “I was not addressing you, Sherrinford.”

      “But you wanted to.  I saw it in your eyes.”

      “John, if we don’t depart soon, I am going to enact drastic measures.”

John set down the tablet he’d borrowed from Greg and smiled menacingly at his partner.

      “No, you won’t.”

      “I beg to differ.”

      “I’ll just have to retaliate.”

      “Notice I am not shaking in fear.”

      “Speaking of shaking.  Know what Sam shared with me the other day?  Some interesting facts about rose hips and velvet bean.”

      “Those… the common trait they share is their pruritic properties.”

      “Exactly.”

      “You wouldn’t dare.”

      “Right in your pants.”

      “That is inexcusably fiendish!”

      “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

      “Give up now, Sherlock.  John _will_ put itching powder in your silky drawers and won’t you feel like a perv scratching your crotch all day.”

      “Your only talent is corruption, Sherrinford.”

      “No, I can also play the theme from _Star Wars_ with my armpit.”

      “JOHN!”

      “Soon, Sherlock.  Sam and I are actually working, if you’d bothered to notice.  As soon as we’re done, we can leave.”

      “Does this work involve Lestrade or are you concocting some emetic with which to dose my morning tea?”

      “Here’s a tip.  Never get Sam any ideas.  But yes, we’re talking about Greg.  Speaking of, why don’t you go and talk to him.”

      “Because he is engaged in conversation with Douglas about international procedures for conducting searches and the ubiquity of the search warrant in various jurisdictions.  It was unutterably boring.”

      “Good for Dougie using his time to best advantage.”

      “Only you, Sherrinford, would condone a conversation about maximizing the success of a smuggling venture.”

      “If I ask Greg, will he tell me _you_ added a few questions to the conversation?”

Sherlock scowled, then pointedly ignored the other two men as he flung himself into a chair and stole John’s tea.

      “Now that we’ve got that settled… John, you think you can make a few calls tomorrow?”

      “Why does John have to do your work?”

      “Oh my god…”

      “Spare me your religious imprecations, Sherrinford.”

      “Sherlock, Sam and I are trying to get some plans in place for Greg’s physical therapy.  I know a few people in that field I can talk to about what the route’s going to look like and when we should really get started.  Does that satisfy you?”

      “No.”

      “What’d you do, you sour little prick?  Eat a lemon for breakfast?”

      “I should be involved in the planning.”

Sam and John shared a look that offered neither of them any answers.

      “What is it with you and Skinny that you think you have a medical degree?”

      “If I wanted one, I would have one, however, I prefer to spend my time in more interesting ways.”

      “Sherlock, I know you’re very invested in Greg’s recovery…”

      “Lestrade has proven himself subject to misguided, negative thinking and I predict this will escalate when he is subject to the humiliating rituals to which you, John, are going to subject him.  I must be prepared to step in and correct whatever ridiculous mindset he falls into.”

This shared look was very different than the first and both Sam and John made quite certain not to let their feelings show on their face.  Sherlock would simply get flustered and that wasn’t an appropriate reward for his clear statement of care and concern for their patient.

      “Ok, that makes sense.  I promise that as soon as we have a firmer idea of what Greg is going to need and how it’s going to happen, Sam and I will let you know.  We’ll have to conference with Mycroft, too, so he, also, can be prepared.  Where is Mycroft, anyway?”

      “In his study.  He evicted me from his computer for some tedious economic crisis he feels he must stick his prominent nose into.”

      “Skinny was always good with money.  Give that little monkey a couple of bucks and he’d parlay it into a bag of art supplies the size of a Buick.  Besides, I know he and Greg have a nice, romantic day planned, so watch how fast he makes this little crisis go away so he can snuggle with his sweet babboo.”

      “Ugh… how revolting.”

      “Really?  That’s actually what I was hoping we could do, Sherlock.  Leisurely day on the sofa with takeaway and a good film or two.”

      “Will there be kissing?”

      “In the film or on the sofa?”

      “Either.”

      “Maybe in the film, definitely on the sofa.”

      “Then I accept your suggestion.”

      “My two baby brothers… so fucking easy, they put _me_ to shame.”

      “Well, if you’re going to pout, our sofa is big enough for three.”

John laughed hard and long at Sam’s look of disgust and Sherlock’s look of terror and took his partner’s distraction to steal back the last few sips of his tea.

      “Alright then, a sofa for two and we’ll get started on it as soon as I’m finished here.  And yes, Sherlock, you can stay and listen.”

      “Participate.”

      “Ok, participate.”

      “I also require more tea.”

      “Jesus, you’re high maintenance.”

      “Most quality things are, Sherrinford.”

      “You have my pity, John.”

      “Yeah, but I’ve got a romantic afternoon on the horizon, so I can cope.”

Sam made a very wet and _very_ rude noise, but held back commenting.  It wouldn’t do to let the pair know just how cute he thought they were.  He’d have to hide _his_ underpants and keep them hidden for a month…

__________

Well, that was a matter of supreme inanity.  It was as if some people delighted in their lack of skill for what they were elected to do.  Mycroft supposed there was some merit to the concept of job security, but there were times he wished other individuals could be a bit more self-sufficient and allow him time on rainy days to spend with his fiancé.

      “Absolutely not.”

      “I truly didn’t believe tight-fistedness was one of your character failings, Detective Inspector.  To refuse to let one insignificant piece of cardstock out of your grasp…”

      “I’m not giving you my card to show when you get pinched!”

      “I’m beginning to believe you are ashamed of our friendship.  I, for one, am pleased, eager even, to demonstrate to all interested parties how close we have become through our investment in Martin and Arthur’s connubial bliss.  I suppose I shall simply have to pass along your personal mobile number so said interested parties can confirm our bond firsthand.”

      “I will murder you and nobody knows how to hide a body better than a cop.”

      “I believe I might challenge that assertion, my dear.”

      “Mycroft!  Save me!”

      “Pish and tosh, Gregory.  I am quite certain you can successfully rebuff Mr. Richardson’s advances.”

      “And your murder threat holds no water, old chap, since that would leave an empty space in the wedding party and Arthur would never forgive you.  And don’t trouble yourself about my little souvenir.  I’ll help myself to a few before I leave.  Now, I think I’ll go and see what trouble Sherry has gotten himself into.  If his insides are no longer in his sides, I’ll raise the alarm.  Eventually.”

Douglas made a show of rising from his chair and walking out the door in the most bored manner possible and Mycroft waited until he left to let his smile shine full force on his lover.

      “I take it you had a nice visit?”

      “The man’s shameless!”

      “Which is why he has found a kindred spirit in Sherrinford.  At least they shall both be occupied for some time and we shall not have act as child minders.”

      “Good.  You’ve had a busy enough day, already.  Get all your business finished?”

      “Handled tidily and thoroughly.”

      “That’s my Mycroft.  Ruling the world and keeping it neat at the same time.”

      “I do prize an orderly domain.”

      “You know, I might as well apologize now, since orderly is not the word that’s going to come to mind when you come home from some trip and see what I’ve done to your lovely house.”

      “ _Our_ house, Gregory.  And, if need be, I shall bolster the number of my cleaning staff.”

      “You have cleaning staff?”

      “They have been given a small holiday while our home is in such an upheaved state and Arthur has been vigilantly tending to any undue clutter.  However, once we are again alone in the house, I shall set about cracking the proverbial whip so your bohemian tendencies are properly managed.”

      “Not even a few books tossed around the bedroom?”

      “Oh very well.  But we will negotiate how the term ‘few’ is defined.”

      “I like the idea of negotiation.”

      “You are a sly devil, my dear.”

      “I’ll get my books on the floor, just you watch.”

      “Only watch?”

      “Ok… maybe more than watch.  We can negotiate that, too.”

Mycroft nudged his shoes off his feet and took a seat next to the bed.

      “Something I greatly look forward to.  And I am quite anxious to move you into a more comfortable room to commence said negotiations.  However, I find myself a tad regretful to leave behind your colorful and chaotic recuperation suite.”

      “I am, too, actually.  I have to say it’s helped to open my eyes and be surrounded by all this color and… effort.  All of it just so I can feel better.  It’s helped a lot.”

      “And, in truth, it has helped those who provided the effort.  There was certainly a therapeutic value in creating things for your entertainment, especially when we did not know if you would ever wake to see one bit of it.  I did not believe such would be the case, but following Arthur’s shining example was an experiment I certainly deem a success.”

      “And I’m going to keep all of it.  Pull the box out now and again to look through it to remind myself of… what happened and what people did to help me put all of that behind me..  And some of it… you wouldn’t mind if I kept some of it out, would you?  A couple of your drawings or Arthur’s collages.  I’ll dandy it up a bit with a nice frame so it won’t seem completely out of place with your…”

      “Good heavens, Gregory, I do believe I am going to have to contract one of those dreadful hypnotists to assist you with embracing the term ‘our’ when it comes to this home.  And yes, we shall surely add a selection of your art collection to the décor.  Choose which items you feel are appropriately representative and we may display them in whatever manner you choose.  Perhaps… they might be the first additions to your study.”

      “What study?”

      “The one we shall establish for you.  It is only equitable, is it not, that if I have my space where I may focus upon the work I bring home, you should be similarly provided?  I envision many an evening when one or both of us has matters which will require the entirety of our concentration and I can attest that a space dedicated for that purpose greatly assists with the process.”

      “Really?  I mean… do you… _we_ … have room for that?”

      “Currently we have five rooms under occupation and that has not exhausted the available space within the property’s walls.  We have sufficient rooms to allot one to you for your use.  If, of course, the idea suits you.”

      “It does, actually.  Normally, I work off of the kitchen table or spread out on my sofa, but a real space to work that I didn’t have to clean up when I wanted breakfast would be fantastic.  Once I’m back on my feet, I’ll start looking for a desk and chair.  A few file drawers would help, too.  You can usually find those cheaply enough.”

Mycroft chuckled softly and patted the hand of the man he loved.  His fiancé would likely never embrace the concept of affluence, but that was not, at all, a bad thing.

      “We shall plan a day of shopping for that specific purpose.  And there is a certainly all manner of warehoused surplus office furnishings owned by the government that we might peruse for suitable offerings.”

      “That’s not for personal use, though.”

      “I shall affect a transfer of any items to Scotland Yard.  That they are being used off-premises is immaterial since they _are_ being used for law enforcement purposes.”

      “That’s twisty, love, but it’s also true, so I can’t necessarily object.”

      “Such is my stock in trade.  Once you are ready, we shall inspect the available rooms in the house and find one that suits your needs.  And some of those rooms are provided with fireplaces…”

Oh, how beguilingly his lover quivered when presented with something which truly inflamed his passions.

      “A fireplace?”

      “Yes… they are not often used, but maintained in functional condition, so the moment you claim your space, we may light a celebratory fire to commemorate the occasion.”

      “A roaring fire… that’s positively brilliant, amazing, fantastic… I think I’m getting a hard on.”

      “Something I shall happily verify.”

Mycroft smiled his most wicked smile and carried through with his promise… which he had meant as a jest but found to actually be... revealing.

      “Gregory… I… you are… plump.”

      “Really?  I’m not imagining it?”

      “Not at all.  I had no idea you had such pyromaniac tendencies.”

      “Actually, I was thinking about the time me and you were in front of the fire in your study and the wonderful things that were happening.  On top of the very filthy things that _would_ have happened and… I guess nature took its course.”

      “I am honored to have a role in your pleasurable memories, my dear.  And this is very encouraging progress to facilitate the making of new ones.”

      “Can you quantify encouraging?”

      “A moment, if you will.”

      “Why?  Oh… ok, that feels nice.”

      “An answer I knew with nary a word from your lips.  I would score… sixty-five percent.”

      “That’s not bad.”

      “It is not.”

      “That’s over half-way.”

      “Most certainly.”

Lestrade’s gleeful smile positively beckoned Mycroft towards it and the long kiss he gave his lover was simply a reward for the man’s incomparable beauty.  And, perhaps, for a little personal celebration that his partner’s recent emotional maelstrom had subsided.  For now.

      “After the kids go to bed, think we might try for seventy percent?”

      “I am not, as you well know, my dear, one to shy away from a challenge.”

Said with a very purposeful lick of his lips that made Lestrade moan slightly in anticipation.

      “Got any sleeping potion to drop in their tea?”

      “Patience, Gregory.  Besides, there is joy to be had in anticipation, is there not?”

      “You’re right.  Can’t argue with that.  Besides, you owe me a film.”

      “That I do.  And I believe it would not be amiss to appoint myself with something a bit more comfortable and share, if you permit it, your cozy blanket.”

      “Slide in here with me?  Nothing better than that.  Except…”

      “Yes?”

      “A bit of scotch?”

      “Certainly not.  You may have your standard amount of lager, but nothing more.”

      “But _you_ can have scotch, right?”

      “Your point?”

      “You can take a nice sip and give me a kiss so I can at least taste the flavor.”

      “Always the inspired problem solver.  I am exceedingly proud.”

      “Seventy percent proud?”

      “Perhaps, even seventy one.”

      “You’re a feisty one, Mycroft Holmes.”

      “I try my best.”

__________

What to do on a rainy London day?  Enjoy a nice book?  Not the worst possible idea.  Find a warm and inviting tavern for some pleasant company and conversation?  Certainly an option.  Borrow one of the umbrellas His Lordship seemed to worship and stroll for a bit of shopping, perhaps finding an enticing bookshop for a few choice tomes?   There was definitely merit to that choice.  If Sherry’s decrepit bones were sufficiently ambulatory, there _was_ potential for the day and… oh, bugger.

Douglas lifted his mobile out of his pocket and made a gesture at it he would be mortified to be seen making in public.

      “Carolyn, how ghastly it is to hear your voice.”

      “And hello to you, too, ex-First Officer Richardson.  I trust you’re enjoying your laying about.”

      “It has its moments.  And to what do I owe this incredible intrusion on my laying-about time?”

      “What possible reason could I have for suffering the hearing of your voice but a job?”

      “I thought this week’s flight was cancelled?”

      “It was.  But there are other fish in the sea and my net is very wide.  Capitalizing upon the term ‘wide’ will not lead you down a pleasant, tree-lined road, so consider yourself duly warned.”

      “Shame on you, Carolyn.  You know there’s no challenge in a cheap shot.”

      “Be that as it may, I have found a little reminder never hurts.  So, be ready for a pick up on Thursday morning.”

      “Thursday… that means we need to be back by Wednesday at the latest.”

      “Back?  And who is ‘we?’  Oh good lord, don’t tell me you got married again.”

      “No, not yet.  Though there are any number of very appealing candidates vying for the position.  For your information, I’m in London.  And _we_ is the remainder of your valiant flight crew.”

      “What!  Arthur and Martin are still in London!”

      “Apparently Sir and Mrs. Sir haven’t entirely been forthcoming in their communications.”

      “Well… it _is_ possible they informed me, however, I have often found it useful for my sanity to set down my mobile and prepare a cup of tea or a roasted chicken after asking my son if his call involves either hospitals or prisons.”

      “Then you have missed many a tale of adventure.”

      “Have any prompted legal action?”

      “Not that I’m aware.”

      “Thank heavens for that.  Are there any that actually concern me?”

      “Hmmmm… you do know about the wedding being in five weeks, correct?”

      “WHAT!”

      “Dear me, I think your roasted chicken cost you a rather substantial piece of data.”

      “Five weeks!”

      “Less, actually, since the decision was made some days ago.”

      “How… how… five weeks!  For the nuptial… _circus_ Arthur wants!”

      “Then aren’t you fortunate the Ringmaster has already begun marshalling the clowns.”

      “Explain.”

      “Arthur’s adopted gold repository has taken matters in hand and each individual circus act has a specific task to perform.  I, for example, shall spearhead the preparation of the menu.  The wedding feast will be one Epicurus himself would envy.”

      “And Mr. Holmes has agreed to pay for that?”

      “Oh, that and more.  I suspect that, unless you feel an overwhelming urge to bail last few teaspoons out of your proverbial monetary water barrel, his royal highness will foot the bill for whatever Martin is willing to allow.  So far, that covers everything wedding related except the rings and his and Arthur’s ceremonial togs.”

      “Mr. Holmes has agreed to pay?”

      “Is there an echo in here?”

      “Are you very certain?  Now is _not_ the time to lie to me, Douglas.”

      “Well, I’m certain if you object, he shall gladly cede the funding of this extravaganza to you and…”

      “NO!  I mean… I would hate to deprive him the feeling of satisfaction from contributing to Arthur’s wedding.”

      “Yes, that would be terribly inconsiderate of you.  The old boy could use a bit of joy in his life.”

      “Given Arthur’s perching on his shoulder like a pirate’s monkey, I’m certain that’s true.  I will, however, have final approval of all plans.  As mother of the groom, it is my duty to ensure my son has the wedding of his dreams.”

      “That would require unicorns and a cathedral made entirely of Toblerones.”

      “And I am certain if anyone can provide that, it is Mr. Holmes.  Now, while all of this is of surprisingly-great interest, none of it explains why you are in London with the rest of Team Useless.”

      “Well, with no tangible employment, I decided to lead a vagabond’s life and follow the scent of a campfire and a meal prepared in a scavenged lard pail.”

      “Douglas…”

      “No, really.  I was bored and this seemed slightly less boring than watching more daytime telly.  What with Martin and Arthur’s standard shambling from one disaster to the next and the Homeric epic that is the Holmes family drama, there was really no doubt this was the better option.”

      “What drama?  I have expressly forbidden Arthur from becoming involved in anything pertaining to blood, firearms, explosives, hostage negotiations or military action.”

      “Well, there was _some_ small amount of bodily fluids and threats of fisticuffs, but the latter, at least, was avoided in practice, so Arthur had few chances to don his nurse’s cap.”

      “You enjoy this, don’t you, Douglas?  Attempting to ensnare my curiosity by strangling me with my apron strings.”

      “Oh, that reminds me.  Gordon paid a visit, too.”

      “WHAT!”

      “Now, that was a night to remember. The scallywag found himself surrounded by his worst nightmare – worse scallywags than him.”

      “Douglas… I am now sitting down.  I want every second of this story recounted to me in detail so fine it would flow freely through a sieve.”

      “I think not.  That could take days and I have a great deal of entertainment to consume before I’m dragged back to your quaint little coal mine.”

      “Now, Douglas, or I shall add to Martin’s duties the role of… Crew Education and Assessment supervisor.  And I shall authorize him to hold weekly training briefings and examinations.”

      “You wouldn’t dare!”

      “Watch me.”

Douglas heaved a very put-upon sigh and detoured towards the sitting room where the seats were comfortable.  He was going to be there awhile.

__________

By the time Martin and Arthur returned home, Arthur had another library’s worth of wedding-planning information in his clutches and Martin wondered if the wedding industry had ever considered going paperless to support the green movement.  But, at least a few decisions had been made and he was beginning to feel a tiny bit less stressed over the impending ceremony.

      “Skip… this is brilliant.”

Martin looked around the kitchen where they’d stopped to drop off the containers of ‘oh look, we found another ice cream shop!’ celebratory ice cream and tried to figure out what Arthur thought was brilliant without actually having to ask.  He failed.

      “What’s brilliant, love?”

      “Everything.  Me and you exploring and shopping and eating ice cream and coming home to watch a film or read or chat with our friends and maybe play a game or have a nice dinner… it’s just been me and Mum for a long time, Skip.  And I do know people in Fitton, but I’ve never been able to just have a nice night of cards and films like we do here and now that we’re going to be husbands and have our little house and then our flat, we can do things like that and it’s going to be… brilliant.”

      “We’ll have exactly as much or as little of a social life as you want, Arthur.  We won’t have a lot of money to go shopping, but we can explore as much as you like and there will always be a few pence we can spare for the ingredients to your special, custom ice creams.”

      “Hurray!”

      “And for what, might I ask, are we hurraying?”

      “Douglas!  We’re hurraying ice cream!”

      “Well, for once your exuberance actually has merit.  Are we, perhaps, in possession of sufficient ice cream for everyone to make merry or is your hurray a memory of some particularly delicious memory from today?”

      “Oh, we brought lots home.  There’s plenty for everyone tonight and for breakfast tomorrow.”

      “Smashing.  I believe I’ll enjoy my portion now.  I need something to sweeten my tongue after today’s conversation with your mother.”

      “Carolyn phoned?”

      “Yes, Martin, and with glad tidings.  We take to the air on Thursday.”

      “Thursday?”

      “Very good, Captain.  Your ears are still in perfect working order.”

      “That means we have to go home on Wednesday.”

      “And very good to you too, Arthur.  Your grasp of the days of the week has improved tremendously.”

      “But… Wednesday.”

      “If we depart London early enough you should have sufficient time to begin moving your things to Martin’s new manor.  Is that enough sugar for your particularly unpalatable medicine?”

      “Oh.  Yes, I suppose that’s true.  Did you… by chance… mention to Mum that I’m moving in with Skip?”

Arthur’s very hopeful eyes made Douglas almost wish he had better news for the steward.

      “No, that’s something you’re going to have to do yourself, I’m afraid.”

      “Skip…”

      “As much as I hate to admit it, I have to agree with Douglas.  But, I’ll be there when you tell her so she’ll probably turn her wrath on me first and you’ll have time to make your escape.”

      “I hope you don’t get a black eye, Skip.  I’d rather not have our wedding photographs with you sporting a Mum-sized bruise.”

      “It’ll have time to heal, love, so don’t worry about it.  Now, how about we see how the others are doing and spread the good news.  Unless Douglas has already done that.”

      “No, well, except for Sherry, but he’s barely human so he doesn’t count.  Dupin and his doctor are at home, I presume, and the royal couple haven’t left their love nest except for a quick scurry to the kitchen and back.  I’m certain they will greatly appreciate a respite from their own company.”

      “Ah hah!  Mycroft said he was going to cuddle with Greg all day and he did!  If we didn’t have so much shopping to do today, that’s what I would have liked to do with Skip.  Maybe there will be another rainy day in the future that will be perfect for cuddling.  Oh, in Mycroft’s little house, there’s even a fire we can cuddle in front of!”

      “It’s England, Arthur.  There will be plenty of rainy days for us to while away in front of a fire.  We’ll make that a priority as long as we actually _have_ a fire.”

      “I feel another hurray coming on, Skip.”

      “Then let’s share it with Mycroft and Greg.  You want to tell them all about your wedding successes, don’t you?”

      “Yes!  We did accomplish a lot today and that’s worth its own hurray.  With the fire hurray and this one… well, we’re lucky Greg’s feeling better so I can have my little shout and not upset him.”

      “Mycroft can hold his hands over Greg’s ears if there’s a problem.”

      “Brilliant!  You’re very smart, Skip.  When it comes to training Kip and Kit, I know you’ll do a great job!”

      “Arthur…”

      “Dear me, this sounds _very_ interesting…”

      “Douglas, do _not_ encourage him.”

      “Arthur, I would absolutely love to hear the story of Kip and Kit.”

      “Brilliant!  I’ll tell you all about it while we spoon out the ice cream.”

      “A good story and ice cream.  I think I might be feeling prone to a small hurray myself.”

      “What did I tell you, Skip?  Everything is brilliant!”

      “ _Everything_ is a very large word, Arthur.”

      “Oh… should I use a smaller one?”

      “I’ll get the bowls.”

__________

Mycroft and Lestrade happily welcomed their visitors and not only because they were bearing ice cream.  Despite the wonderful closeness of their day, it was a pleasure to welcome their family back into their home.  As Arthur summarized the highlights of his and Martin’s day and showed the older men the various new brochures, Mycroft found himself fighting the urge to pull aside a few for himself to study in more detail when only him and his fiancé were able to view them.  What type of wedding would best suit them?  A grand and formal affair… there was certainly appeal in giving his Gregory a wedding that would be long remembered in social and political circles.  But, at the same time, his lover, rather like himself, placed little value in the empty trappings of spectacle.  But the polar opposite also did not hold appeal.  A sterile signing of the appropriate documents then a going about of their normal day.  A middle road, then.  Something that clearly celebrated their love and devotion, but remained sedate and collegial, rather than formal.  The guest list would be quite the topic of reflection, however.  Purely family?  His dear Gregory did have colleagues and friends he valued highly… his own social circle was quite small, but it would not be amiss to extend invitations for an event such as his nuptials.  Of course, the number of hands reaching for an invitation would escalate rapidly once the announcement was made and there _could_ be some for whom a refusal might be politically indelicate.  Not that he really cared, but it would be quite the nuisance if some bit of assistance was difficult to achieve because of a still-harbored grudge.  Perhaps…

      “Love, are you still with us?”

Wool gathering… now that he had a home and not a house, his mind was allowing itself a small ease from the incessant demands of focus and it was a surprisingly agreeable shift in the winds.

      “I am at that.  Simply considering the logistics of the upcoming affair.  Arthur and Martin have done an exemplary job making a start on the decision-making portion of the endeavor and I would not want their hard work to go to waste through lack of proper implementation.”

Of course, one look at his fiancé confirmed that Lestrade believed none of what he was saying, but how joyful it was to share little deceptions with his soon-to-be spouse.

      “We did make some very important decisions, too.  But… there’s one we still need to make and Skip reminded me of it today and I think we could use a little help, actually.”

      “Oh, and what is that?”

Four men leaned forward to hear Arthur’s concern, or tried to, in Lestrade’s case, and Arthur swallowed a tiny pill of nervousness before plunging onward.

      “Well, it’s about the wedding.  Though, I suppose that makes sense since we’ve been talking about the wedding, so I probably didn’t actually have to say that.  Anyway, Skip and I need to decide where the wedding is going to be.  I don’t want anyone to have to say they can’t come and someone might have to if they live in Fitton and can’t easily get to London or if they live in London and can’t easily get to Fitton.  And Skip’s right that we’re doing a lot of our planning in London and maybe it won’t be so easy to get things to Fitton, but it would be the same problem if we did our planning in Fitton and had to get things to London.  It’s a sticky pickle, I’m afraid.”

Very happy this wasn’t some truly distressing issue, Sam, Douglas and Mycroft relaxed, but had to admit Arthur’s pickle _was_ a bit sticky.

      “Of course, whatever you decide, dear boy, is perfectly acceptable and I assure you that transportation will be provided for anyone who desires it to the venue of your choice.  Not a soul shall be left wanting for lack of a means of transit.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft!  That’s going to make things a lot easier.”

      “Skinny’s offering a party bus.  Say you want to get hitched in Australia, kid, so we can have a party plane and kick off your wedding celebration a day or two early.”

      “I assure you, Sherrinford, any transport I provide shall maintain a strict no-alcohol policy.”

      “Hear that sound?  That sort of a whoosh?  That’s the sound of you sucking the fun out of the universe.”

      “My heavens, I had no idea I was so gifted.”

      “Come along, Sherry.  I do believe we have an evening ahead of us and I, for one, plan to make good use of it.”

      “That little bar we ran across with the lovely whisky and the even lovelier ladies?”

      “My very thought.”

      “See ya suckers.  We’re off to escape Skinny’s fun hole.  Ok, that really didn’t come out like I’d planned so I’d better find a drink fast.”

Sam heaved himself out of his chair and ignored Douglas’s sniggering while he stalked out the door, looking very much like Sherlock when he was hoping to make a dramatic exit.

      “And on that note, I bid you adieu.  We should return before dawn, but I never make promises I’m not certain I can keep.”

Lestrade started laughing as Douglas followed Sam for their night of debauchery and Mycroft smiled at his partner’s amusement.

      “I know you are quite anxious to be the third of the Musketeers, my dear, but please do not try and sneak away after I’ve retired for the evening.  I would hate to have to present myself at the police station to collect you for your misdeeds.”

      “But, Mycroft… Greg is a policeman!  They don’t do things you can get arrested for!”

      “Arthur, this is Greg we’re talking about.  And in the company of Sam and Douglas.  An arrest is almost guaranteed.  Deportation is also a solid possibility.”

      “Sorry, Arthur, but Martin’s right.  I’ve been known to get up to a bit of no good in my time and having an audience just made things worse.”

As Arthur’s eyes widened and he prepared to dive in to that particular topic of conversation, Martin decided it was time for their own quiet evening and rose from his seat, extending a hand to his fiancé.

      “Another time, love.  You can hear all about Greg’s bad old days another time.  How about we clear away these bowls and put away all of your wedding materials.  Then we can watch one of the films you’ve been saving for a quiet night.”

      “Alright, Skip.  That sounds quite nice, actually.  Bye, Mycroft!  Bye, Greg!  We’ll see you tomorrow, unless you need something, in which case we’ll see you earlier and that’s perfectly ok since there’s never a bad time to see either of you!  Oh… and we’re going to have to leave on Wednesday because we have a job on Thursday.  Mum called and let Douglas know.  We’ll have a special little party before we leave, though, so I’m going to try and see as much of you as I can until then, if that’s alright.”

Arthur scooped up the bowls and Martin held the door open for him.  The older men watched them go and, when the door closed, Mycroft chuckled and took the opportunity to slide back into Lestrade’s bed.

      “Wednesday, my dear.  Sherrinford will be taking his new residence shortly, our Fitton branch shall be returning to their daily lives… we are soon to learn very well what it is like to have our home to ourselves.”

      “Well, not entirely.  I’m sure John and Sam are still going to be haunting the halls and there will probably be other people they’ll bring in for whatever I’m going to need to move past this nonsense, but… it’s going to be close.”

      “Most assuredly.  And, since I often must entertain individuals on a professional level, that bit of perturbation shall provide some window into our future status quo.  Your thoughts?”

      “It’s hard to say.  The thought of me and you actually having a home life together is… well, it’s a fantastic thought.  But, I am going to miss everyone.  There’s something about having a house full of people that’s difficult to describe, but I like it.  I like that there’s always someone to talk to, always something to keep you occupied…”

      “I believe we can be assured of visits by both John and Sherlock on a somewhat regular basis and there is always the bounty of technological means by which you can maintain communication with the remainder of the family.”

      “That’s true.  And I can’t lie about how excited I am for the time when it’s just you and me.  That’s the best of all.  If you’re going to be home tomorrow night… I’d like to try another walk, if that’s alright with you.”

Mycroft scrutinized his partner for any sign of a lie or distress, but couldn’t find anything he could pin down with confidence.

      “Gregory, are you certain?”

      “Yeah… I am.  Before the grenade landed in my lap, I was having more fun than you can imagine.  I’ve always liked taking a nice stroll and having you with me was… magical.  Wheels and all, it was perfect and I’m not going to let what happened keep me from having another taste.  That would _really_ be cowardly and I’m not going down that path.”

Said with a steely determination that gave Mycroft a sharp stab of pride in his partner.  His Gregory would suffer many such black times, he had already been warned and seen the warnings bear fruit, but his fiancé _would_ battle back from them.  With help and time and the firm, unwavering knowledge that he was loved and respected, his lover would overcome his difficulties and find himself leading his former life once again.

      “Then a stroll we shall have.  I do not foresee a late evening, though I will alert you, if possible, should that change.”

      “It’s a date!  I’ll wear my nicest lap blanket for the occasion.”

      “How enticing of you, my love.  You know how a well-presented plaid arouses my libidinous urges.”

      “Speaking of… I think we can count on being left alone for the rest of the night.”

      “And I remember being presented with a very pleasant challenge that I am most anxious to uptake.”

      “Not that I can do much else, but consider me entirely in your hands.”

      “A situation which finds me in a state of ecstasy.”

      “Is there room in your state for two people?”

      “It is exactly large enough for two.  Allow me to extend to you my warmest welcome.”

      “Does it involve kissing?”

      “A great deal, as a matter of fact.”

      “Then I’m happy to be welcomed.”

And there was nothing Mycroft could do but kiss the smug little purse of Lestrade’s lips and let that kiss deepen gently as he repositioned to settle into a longer greeting.  He’d have to lock the door soon, so more licentious activities could occur, but… licentiousness was well and good but kissing his fiancé… that was something truly special.

__________

      “You know, I can’t say this shit is entirely shit.”

Sam looked around his new flat, only slightly hung over from his night out with Douglas, and couldn’t think of anything truly horrible to say about Lestrade’s borrowed furnishings.

      “I would say this is entirely acceptable for the average doghouse, Sherry, so it suits you quite nicely.”

      “Not frilly or fussy… good solid man furniture.  I’ll need a few more things here and there to fill up this warehouse of an apartment, but this will do for now.”

      “AAAAHHHH!!!!”

      “I do believe our inestimable steward has arrived.”

Douglas stood clear of the bedroom doorway and a second later, Arthur barreled through, looking as if he was about to shake apart with excitement.

      “This is brilliant!”

      “How’s it going, Arthur?  You and Martin finished with your conquering of London’s shopping and entertainment districts.”

      “Well, we do have to get everything we can done soon because Wednesday is going to come a lot more quickly than you might imagine.”

      “I think it’ll probably come right after Tuesday, if I remember right.”

      “Yes, Doctor Sam, that’s true, but you know how they say time flies when you’re having fun?  Well, it’s absolutely true and it can fly very, very fast when you’re having as much fun as Skip and I are having.”

      “Ok, point taken.  And I guess you like the additions to the apartment?”

      “It’s unbelievable!  Greg’s furniture fits so nicely and looks amazing.  And Skip’s putting some groceries in the kitchen.  We got milk and bread and tea and coffee and cake and cheese and lots of other good things you need.  And did you see the dishes!  Your landlady is very nice and let us in yesterday to put them in the cupboards.  Was it a surprise?”

Large plates and bowls with colorful stripes around the rims had said hello to Sam when he took a look to assess cabinet space and it was clear that Martin had moderated Arthur’s natural decorative leanings.  With the heavy glasses, he was set for a dinner party of twelve.  Or a good week of not having to wash dishes…

      “I did and thank you.  That was very nice of you and Skinny’s bank account.”

      “He won’t mind.  You’re his brother, after all.  Oh!  And I asked Greg what size was his bed and got sheets, which are in the drawer and pillows, which are in the closet and Skip’s also carrying some shampoo and soap other cleaning things.  Towels!  We got towels , too, and…

Both Douglas and Sam mentally pictured a small, ginger mule laden down with housewarming goods, being led along the streets of London by an enthusiastic Arthur Shappey.

      “Perhaps we should relieve Sir of his burdens and see about making a list of items Sherry needs to acquire to complete outfitting his new residence.”

Sam nodded his thanks to Douglas for derailing Arthur’s train of thought and slowly made his way out of the bedroom, only wincing slightly at the overall body pain he was suffering from overexerting himself last night and today.  At least Mycroft’s minions had done all the furniture moving and weren’t complete idiots about placement, so there really wasn’t anything to shift around to make the space feel right.

      “Martin!  Look at you being a cute little housewife.  Get yourself a pretty apron and I bet Arthur will spend all day watching you putter around the kitchen.”

      “What, did someone say something?  All I heard was some vague mumbling from the tramp that seems to have circumvented the security system and made himself at home.”

      “Skip… it’s not nice to call Doctor Sam a tramp, even though he’s extra-scruffy today and smells a bit like old beer.”

      “Shame on you, Sherry, neglecting the basic nod to humanity that is hygiene.  Here, allow me to phone the young ladies who were desperate enough last night to provide you their phone number and inform them that you are suffering some form of hydrophobia and are avoiding showers for the moment.  Never fear, though, I will offer them a very agreeable alternative for a night out, so their hunting efforts will not have been wasted.”

      “A man can’t even slob around his own house in this country.  Are you sure the Nazi’s didn’t win the war?”

      “I can vouch with great authority that our side emerged victorious.”

All eyes slowly turned towards the familiar voice standing just inside the door of the flat and waited for Mycroft to put in words what his eyes were rapidly taking in.

      “This is not entirely horrifying.”

      “Thanks for that, Skinny.  Glad I’m not going to be living in some friggin’ haunted house look-a-like.”

Mycroft strolled in further and inspected the space more thoroughly.

      “The volume of this flat is quite substantial.”

      “Isn’t it brilliant?  It’s big and it’s bright and there are windows and bedrooms and there’s a little park that Skip and I stopped in for a bit of a sit and it was the cutest little park you can imagine!”

Very quickly Mycroft realized exactly who had picked the property and smothered his evil grin of revenge that his troll-like brother was going to have to inhabit a flat that truly was the opposite of his naturally dank personality.

      “I quite agree, Arthur.  Very airy and uplifting.  Perhaps some of the ambiance will, as they say, rub off on Sherrinford.”

      “Oh, I expect it will.  It has to; it’s just so cheerful and happy.  Skip and I are going to get one of those bird feeders that stick to the outside of a window, which bring lovely birds in close to watch and I’m going to find another rainbow-maker like the one I put on Greg’s hospital window and with these windows getting so much sun… there are going to be rainbows everywhere!”

      “Isn’t that heartening, Sherrinford?  Rainbows.  Everywhere.”

And the very best part was that Mycroft absolutely knew his brother would never have the heart to remove Arthur’s little gifts and would suffer their bolstering effects every single day.  This was making his decision to set foot in the enemy camp completely worth the time.

      “I need a drink.”

      “Oh!  I forgot we also got a kettle!  I’ll make tea.”

Sam sagged and groaned, earning an insincerely-sympathetic pat on his back from Douglas and a pleased-with-your-suffering smirk from both Mycroft and Martin.

      “You do that, Arthur.  Skinny, why are you here, anyway?”

      “I was returning to my office from a meeting and it was not a significant detour from my route to this address.  Gregory was rather curious about the condition of your acquisition and I will be able to allay his concerns that you have located something that will be condemned within the month, necessitating a return to our home.”

      “I would stay in the cheapest, most bedbug-ridden, hooker hotel in the city before that happened.”

      “Now, there is a location where you would likely find an abundance of individuals of temperament similar to yours.  Your cohort of friends would truly skyrocket.”

      “Har de har har.  I can’t wait until my wifi is up and running.  You’re going to be getting a lot of packages soon, Mycroft.  A _lot_ of packages with vendor names in large, clear letters for all your neighbors to see.”

      “Hurray!  Presents!”

Arthur poked his head out of the kitchen and beamed gleefully, only to be escorted back inside by Martin who had already grown tired of the Holmes brother sparring.

      “I would say, Your Grace, you have reached a stalemate, so why don’t the two of you give my ears a well-deserved break and let’s discuss more productive matters.  Such as the stag parties for Martin and Arthur.”

Even Mycroft had to crack a small smile at the idea.  Not that the disgraceful ritual in any manner won his approval, but a pre-nuptial celebration of some form would certainly not be out of place.

      “Now, that is the best idea I’ve heard all day!  How are we going to do this?  One bash or divide it up into two?”

      “Two gives us twice the fun, but with Carolyn’s haphazard method of capturing clients, there’s also twice the chance of having to cancel.”

      “Perhaps a single event that can be divided into two distinct phases.”

Sam looked at Mycroft and wondered what his brother had up his sleeve.  The twinkle in his eye said little Mycie definitely had some idea rolling around in that brain of his…

      “Care to share, brother mine?”

      “Not at this time, no.  However, after I have put some flesh to bone, I shall gladly share my thoughts.  Do feel free to script a portfolio of your own ideas and we may consider all possibilities before a final decision is made.”

      “What do you think, Dougie?”

      “Well, the line dividing the wildly creative from the not wildly creative runs cleanly down the center of the room with you and I on one side and Mr. Straight and Narrow on the other, however, your brother does have one thing we decidedly lack.”

      “Cash.”

      “Precisely.”

      “And he _did_ come up with a few of his own wild schemes when he was a kid…”

      “I most certainly did not!”

      “Watch this Douglas… fish forks!”

Mycroft’s startle made the other two men laugh and the middle Holmes mentally crossed his fingers that his dolt of a brother did not choose to share the details of that particular escapade.  It was not well-described as his finest moment.

      “Damning, positively damning, Mr. Holmes.  I’m impressed.  Between the three of us, I predict a very suitable farewell-to-bachelorhood celebration can be crafted.”

Sam would carry to the grave with him the nearly invisible flash of delight on his brother’s face.  Poor Mycroft… never had it easy making friends and was never the kid that the others included in their games at school.  Today, a lot of people probably included him in things and most of them were only doing it for what they could get out of the deal.  But, with their own personal circle, things were different.  Mycie had people who cared and were happy to have him around.  _Wanted_ him around and that obviously meant the world to his brother.

      “Excellent.  I shall also discuss the matter with Gregory.  I believe he has some experience with this sort of thing and can provide useful insight.”

      “Oh, about what?  And look!  I’d forgotten we’d bought biscuits, so we can have those as well.  I hope it’s alright that the tea is in glasses.  Doctor Sam doesn’t have any proper cups, but we can make do.  It’s like an adventure!”

Confident that Arthur had moved on from his initial question, Mycroft accepted his water glass of tea, careful to grasp it at the top so as not to burn his fingers.

      “It is certainly an adventure, dear boy.  Having tea in the wilds of Sherrinford’s abode, surrounded by Gregory’s stalwart furniture.  The promise of songbirds at the window and rainbows in the air.  Today is a fine adventure for us to share.”

      “That was lovely, Mycroft!  You could be a poet.  A poet and an artist.  Oh, and I picked the perfect spot for the picture you’re going to draw for Doctor Sam.”

Mycroft’s ‘pardon me?’ and Sam’s ‘what the fuck’ vied simultaneously for Arthur’s attention, so Douglas took pity on the boy and pointed to Mycroft to center the steward’s focus.

      “Oh!  Yes!  Well, I was thinking it would be a very nice thing to have a drawing of Doctor Sam, Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock all together as little kids, so Doctor Sam could put it in here and see it every day!  And Mycroft’s drawings are the best, better even than photographs, in my opinion, because photographs only show things the way they actually are, but drawings show things the way you remember them or want them to be and what could be better than that!”

Mycroft and Sam very consciously kept from looking at each other, but Arthur didn’t notice the brotherly awkwardness, so busy was he distributing biscuits and giving Martin a quick peck on his cheek.

      “Well, let’s talk about my décor later, what say, kiddo, and concentrate on your mission?”

Arthur scrunched up his brow trying to think of what it was he apparently had forgotten.

      “My mission?”

      “Taking photos of my apartment so Greg can see how bitchin’ his crappy furniture looks in this place.  Then, you and Martin need to do a run around the neighborhood getting take-out menus to tack on my fridge.  And magnets to do the tacking.”

      “Yes!  Greg is going to be thrilled that this things are here and doing such a brilliant job of making the flat look cozy!”

Douglas and Mycroft stifled their chuckles since it would take a great deal more than a few chairs and a bed to make Sam’s large, high-ceiling flat appear cozy.  Perhaps if a family of ten moved in…

      “And Skip and I are going to get every take-away menu we can find!  We’ll write down the names of all the local shops, too, so you know where to go when you need something.  I _did_ have a mission!  Thanks for telling me, Doctor Sam.  I would hate to have left and not gotten the job done!”

Sam smiled and shuffled across the room, slowly settling himself down on the comfortable, broken-in sofa.  He was here.  Despite what he’d told Sherlock, if Mycroft had a last-minute change of heart, he would have left London.  Wouldn’t have gone far, but definitely taken his ass out of city limits so the symbolic Iron Curtain could have been raised.  But that hadn’t happened.  And here was Mycroft making a very forceful statement that the heave-ho _wouldn’t_ come, either.  Skinny may never set foot in his apartment again, but he had done it once and that was a statement he read loud and clear.

      “Well, I’ve got nothing else on my agenda today.  Mycroft, are you sticking around or are you going back to your planet ruling?”

      “I have a full agenda today, I’m afraid.  In fact, I must be departing in a moment.”

      “Too bad.  You’re going to miss the picnic in the park.”

Mycroft smirked at his brother as Arthur’s volcanic eruption shook the walls.

      “Picnic!  Oh… and you mean in the little park you can see from the window where Skip and I sat and all the people were smiling and laughing and… please tell me we’re having our picnic in that park.”

      “You read my mind, kid.  You are Martin are going to do the neighborhood rounds and put together a nice picnic lunch that we can all have out there so I can say hello to my new neighborhood.  It’s not too cold today, so might as well strike while opportunity knocks.”

      “Masterful mauling of idiomatic speech, Sherry.”

      “Thanks, Douglas, I’m here all week.”

      “No, you’re here until Doomsday.  I shall, however, be accepting the kindly-offered ride home Mr. Holmes is preparing to extend and enjoy the warmth of a fire and relaxing book in very comfortable surroundings.”

Not if Sam could help it.

      “Arthur, how many women did you see in the park?”

      “Women?  Well, lots.”

      “And this lots of women… were they pretty?”

      “Of course!  But, Doctor Sam, everyone’s pretty and in a different way, which is why people are positively brilliant.”

This shared Douglas-Mycroft chuckle was soundly at Sam’s forgetting just to whom he was speaking.

      “Ok, then, knowing the specific types of pretty Douglas thinks are extra-brilliant, would you say there were lots of those in the park?”

Arthur thought very hard and it took a gentle pinch by Martin to jump-start him back to reality.

      “I would have to say yes.  Skip, would you agree?”

Whether Martin did or did not agree was completely irrelevant.  Dragging Douglas Richardson to a picnic where, even if they only sat on a bench, there was sure to be games of some form and musical entertainment.  Especially if that toy shop a few streets over had anything that could be used by his dear fiancé to entertain the other picnickers.

      “I suppose.  We did see quite a number of young women enjoying the morning sun.  I would suspect we would cross paths with a goodly few around the lunch hour.”

Despite himself and the very obvious manipulation, Douglas couldn’t help but be intrigued.  He would be making it a point to visit his London connection on a regular basis and a preliminary assessment of the local dinner and drinks possibilities was definitely time well spent.

      “Oh fine.  If I don’t throw my hat into your infernal outdoors excursion, I’ll never hear the end of it and I dearly _want_ to hear the end of it at the earliest possible moment.”

      “Hurray!  Come on, Skip!  Let’s get started.  We’re on a time limit and … we can make it a game.  Yes!  See, Doctor Sam… I told you this was a brilliant flat!”

Arthur grabbed Martin and dashed out the door, while Mycroft gave them a minute or two to be somewhat down the road before he took his own leave, lest he somehow be convinced into joining their merrymaking.

      “Well, duty calls.  Mr. Richardson, I will see you later.  Sherrinford, I shall see you never.”

      “My joy cannot be measured, my bliss knows no bounds.”

      “And now you are the poet, dear brother.  Great-aunt Amelia would be most proud.”

      “My favorite piece of hers was the one about frogs.  There was that other one about sugar cubes, too.  It had a nice rhythm.”

      “Our family tree simply overflows with artistic talents.”

      “Plenty of nuts, too.  Sure you won’t stay, Skinny?  I think if nuclear war breaks out, the big mushroom cloud over Parliament would be visible from here.”

      “Unfortunately, I must decline.  You… do you have everything you require to stay here tonight?”

Sam had thought very little affected him anymore, but reconnecting with his brothers was changing his mind quickly.

      “I do… thanks.  I’m sure Arthur will give the place a final once-over and make a last-minute grocery/pharmacy run if he thinks I’m low on anything.  Since he’s been a lazy shit lately, John’s doing double duty with your love muffin, but we’ll be back on our normal shifts starting tomorrow, but, I don’t think Greg’s going to really need that level of monitoring for long.  He doesn’t now, actually, but I think it’s a little too soon for him mentally to only have us check in now and then.  So, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

      “I agree.  With his recent setbacks, Gregory would not react well to being left too much to his own devices, no matter how much he might protest to the contrary.  Very well, I will expect you tomorrow evening.  Do enjoy your day.”

Mycroft nodded at Douglas and strolled out the door to continue with his business.  His brother was officially back in London.  Not that it was not official before, but a flag had been planted and would not likely be uprooted in the foreseeable future.  And Sherlock was close enough to easily perpetrate his irritating, unannounced raids for ridiculous purposes.  An extra night or two a month without finding Sherlock in his study would be quite the welcome side-effect of Sherrinford’s return to London.  Finally, his brother was good for _something_ …


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him because, unlike his dearly beloved, he positively adored paper/computer work.  So much information at his fingertips!  And all of it pieces of something larger that only he was sufficiently skilled to see.  Yes, he had individuals he trusted to separate the wheat from the chaff, however, that did not stop him from periodically inspecting said chaff for bits and pieces that, again, only he might recognize as being significant.  It was a blissful day when he had few formal meetings and could concentrate solely on the wonderful world of data…

… so, naturally, Marilyn Monroe had, apparently, found it necessary to rise from the grave and announce her presence on the caller ID of his private mobile phone.

      “Is there a reason, Sherrinford, that you feel it necessary to camouflage your identity when you contact me and, further, why you feel the need to don a dress to do so?”

      “It excites you, doesn’t it?”

If his brother were not intimately tied to his fiancé’s healthcare, he would do everything within his power to prevent the buffoon from having any ability to use a communications device more complicated than opening his window and shouting.

      “You are completely disgraceful as a human being.”

      “That’s true, and doesn’t that make it a trillion times worse that I’m rolling around on your bed.”

      “What?”

      “Actually, it’s a little hard to roll with this mattress.  It’s sort of sucked me in and it’s hard to roll when you’ve been sucked this hard.”

      “Sherrinford… why are you in my bed?”

      “Testing it out.  Gregalicious asked, yet again, about moving to your room and he looked so sad and puppy-like that I said I’d check it out.  So, I’ve rooted through all your drawers, you _are_ supposed to wash your sex toys periodically, you know… and tried on the clothes in your closet.  Checked out your torture dungeon down the stairs from your closet…”

      “WHAT!!!!!!!!!!”

      “Fuck me sideways!  Don’t scream in my ear, you prick.”

      “That… how did you…”

      “Find it?  Well, I knew there had to be one somewhere because that’s exactly as cliché as I would imagine from you and you tried for months when you were eight to get Father to dig one beneath your bedroom, throwing the cutest little tantrums when he refused and tried to let you take over the wine cellar instead.  Getting in was a bit tricky, but you’re so friggin’ predictable, it wasn’t _that_ hard.”

      “Sherrinford… listen to me very, very carefully.  That is not to be revealed to anyone.  Not Gregory, not the man you love who delivers your alcohol… that is absolutely a secret of highest importance and…”

      “Oh, so I shouldn’t have let Arthur in to start redecorating?”

      “WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

      “I am going to reach through this phone and pull out your goddam vocal cords!  You’ve got a shit opera voice and always have, which I will discuss in full and play the recordings I made that I still have to everyone you know if you ever do that again.  Asshole.  Anyway, since you can’t take a joke, I’ll tell you that I didn’t tell anybody and if you’re going to be a complete priss pants about the whole thing, I won’t, because I do _not_ want you shrieking at me for the rest of my fucking life.”

Mycroft felt his heart tentatively restart and could only hope that his brother’s moronic façade was fully in operation here and he realized the seriousness of his discovery.

      “Very well… I am placing a great amount of trust in you, Sherrinford, and I can only hope it is justified.  Now, please make yourself absent from my bedroom and…”     

      “No, I’m not done.”

      “You are quite finished with your reprehensible snooping and…”

      “Nope, I’m not done until we decide what to do about this ridiculous mattress of yours.”

Oh yes, the actual topic of their conversation…

      “You are actually considering moving Gregory upstairs?”

      “It’s not my first choice, but the small amount of exercise going up and down the stairs, once a day, isn’t going to kill him.  And you’ve got to make that clear.  He gets _one_ trip per day for now, so he’d better do everything he wants when he has the chance.  All things considered, I decided he could use a boost right now and this would be a good one.  I know he did well on his wheelchair stroll last night, but he’s still got some baggage to work through from the past few days and a little bit of what feels like progress will be helpful.”

Last night… his Gregory had been so terribly nervous when they left the house, but the time, once those first moments passed, had been inexpressibly calm and pleasurable.  Of course, he had taken steps to ensure that would be the case, but there was no reason his lover needed that information.  They had taken full advantage of the crisp night air and it was positively joyful to see his fiancé’s smile once again light up the night.

      “I am not averse to the idea, as long as Gregory’s health is in no manner compromised.”

      “Hence this bed of yours.  Seriously, do you think you’re a god who gets to sleep on clouds or something?”

      “It… it _is_ a bit luxurious but, after a trying day, it provides a soothing rest.”

      “Since I doubt you see more than a couple hours in it every other day, I’m not too worried about you doing without it for a few months.  Or, we can you one of those half and half things that you can set for whatever firmness you want so you can have your cloud pile on one side and your sweetie pie can have something with more support on the other.”

      “Are those the ghastly things I have seen peddled in the advertisements?”

      “Yep.”

      “No.”

      “Ok… I’ll call the makers of the most expensive mattresses in the world and tell them you need another one of their fine products.”

      “That is acceptable.”

      “Now, and I’m not being shitty, you _will_ have to make sure for awhile that you don’t do anything that spills Greg onto the ground.  I’m not going to insist we bolt some side rails onto this gargantubed, but I _am_ going to put you on alert that he’s still in piss poor shape and is going to need you to keep an eye on him.”

      “Yes… I understand.  Gregory’s safety is paramount, so you may rest assured I will be vigilant in maintaining it.”

      “Good.  And you should have a talk with him about trying to use that bathtub of yours without someone there to help.  Seriously, Skinny… that thing’s a fucking swimming pool.”

      “I did not realize you had an allergy to quality and comfort, Sherrinford.  I am certain, however, that you can regain your well-being by absenting yourself from my personal quarters.”

      “How much of the government’s annual tax theft went into that palatial bathroom?”

      “Graft is not required when one has a firm grasp of basic economics and investing principles.”

      “Father would be proud.  I remember how often you’d barge into his study and demand to see the household accounts ledgers.  You’d spend half the day poring over them for any hint the milkman was robbing us blind.”

Mycroft would never admit to the surge of memory that flooded his mind, but permitted himself a small smile as he revisited sitting in Father’s study, at the assistant’s desk, ledgers spread out around him… for Christmas one year, Sherry had somehow found budget and expenditure documents for several critical periods during World War I and he had lost himself for weeks analyzing the various battles and events from an economic perspective… as well as demanding that Father see to it that certain individuals were prosecuted posthumously for gross fiscal mismanagement.

      “Which he was, actually.  His prices for butter were inflated a full thirty percent above average market rate and I know he misrepresented the quantity of cream delivered, as we had not the requisite number of cats necessary to consume what he claimed we ordered.”

Another thing Mycroft would never admit to… it was surprisingly enjoyable to be able to discuss his younger years with someone who actually had something to contribute to the conversation.  Sherlock remembered little of Father and, of course, knew nothing of the younger years of his long-suffering brother.

      “At least I know that you and Greg aren’t going to have to come and live with me because you’ve lost all your cash in some llama farm investment.”

      “I am not certain there are enough llamas in the world to deplete my accounts.”

      “Ok, llama and zucchini.”

      “Have you been speaking with Arthur about the dinner menu?”

      “Hah!  If he wasn’t already doing something with chicken and a power drill, I suggest that to him.”

      “Oh dear, perhaps I shall have a late evening at my desk.”

      “He’s poking herb sprigs in the holes and calling it Woodland Chicken.”

      “Can I trust you to ensure my kitchen will not require a visit by our city’s valiant firefighters?”

      “Probably not, because I have a bag of marshmallows waiting for the inevitable forest fire, but I’ll pass the word along to Martin.  He’s a Safety First type of kid.”

      “Yes, that might be wise.  Martin always was the first to ascertain the conditions of the terrain before he and Sherlock made a nappy-clad escape into the garden.”

      “Which they did all the fucking time.”

      “At least there is not, I believe, an abundance of grasshoppers for them to dine upon in London.  In Fitton, however… perhaps Arthur should be warned about his fiancé’s atypical dining habits.”

      “That was not a happy day for anyone.”

      “Cleaning toddler teeth of grasshopper limbs was not the highlight of my summer either.”

No, he was not chuckling.  He was simply clearing his throat in acknowledgement that his insufferable brother was being slightly less insufferable than normal at the moment.

      “Those little bastards fought like ninjas the whole time, too… Ok, then.  I’ll get a new mattress brought in and put the old one in one of the bajillion bedrooms you have in this hotel for the time being.  And I’ll give the bathroom a once-over for a couple of things to make it easier for Greg to manage.  Nothing permanent, you’ll be able to get it all back to normal when he doesn’t need it anymore…”

      “Sherrinford, I truly do not care how you re-fit the bathroom, as long as Gregory is made more comfortable by it.”

      “You may not, but he will.  Too many big, structural changes and he’ll think this is going to be what he’s going to need forever.  Get the picture?”

Unfortunately, yes… it was now a very clear one.

      “So, just a little rearrangement of a few things, some removable non-slip strips in the tub and shower, that sort of thing.  And I’d advise leaving the downstairs room set up pretty much as is, so if he wants to spend the day downstairs, he can do it comfortably.  Actually, that might be a plan… have him spend the day downstairs like he is now, with a few more small walks and spins in his chair, but bring him upstairs at night.  Start a routine going that still keeps him mostly in bed, but is more like a standard daily schedule.  Get up, get dressed, come downstairs, do whatever, go upstairs, get undressed, go to bed.  A little structure to the day, but a little variation, too.  I think that would be helpful.”

      “But not overtaxing, correct?”

      “Nah… provided it’s only one trip up and down the stairs a day for now.  And you’ll have to be _fucking_ careful that he doesn’t fall, but some activity and motion is good for him.  _Some_ is the watchword, though, Mycie.  Once he gets a taste of freedom, he’s going to want more and he’s not ready for it.  Be prepared to be the mean parent for awhile, because he _is_ going to test you and see what he can get away with.”

      “He shall find I am supremely untestable.”

      “He already knows how to push your buttons, you dumb fuck.  It’s up to you to recognize when he’s doing it, push back and not give in when it upsets him.  It’s the hardest thing for families of patients to do because you want to make them happy, keep them happy, and squash anything that threatens that.  Now, I’ve got more faith in you than most, because you’re a complete asshole, but… it’s going to be hard.  Be ready for it.”

Mycroft ignored the standard insults and concentrated on the actual point of his brother’s speech.  With the ability to do little, his Gregory had already pressed the limits of what he was allowed and with more ability, he would feel encouraged and push even harder.  But, knowing well the consequences of allowing his partner to exceed his limits, it would be far easier to remain firm on necessary decisions.

      “I shall.  Thank you, Sherrinford.”

      “You’re welcome.  And now, I’m going to put nasty surprises in each pocket of your suits, fart on your pillow and see if Arthur needs any help with his dinner extraordinaire.  See you later, little bro.”

And before Mycroft could sputter an enraged answer, the phone line was dead.  Perhaps it was time to invest in cybernetic research so that he could remove his fatuous brother’s brain, upload the consciousness, edit out the utterly abhorrent sections and put Sherrinford to use in some productive fashion.  Truly, the man was a blight… but, unfortunately, an occasionally useful one…

__________

      “Well?”

      “Is where we get water.”

      “Miserable arse.  What did Mycroft say?”

Sam sat down and made a grand show of propping up his feet and wriggling around to get comfortable, while Lestrade’s irritation and anticipation built to a sufficiently entertaining level.

      “He said ok.”

      “YES!  FREE!”

      “Yeah, but not tonight, so calm your buns.  You’re not going to be ready for his sultan-quality mattress for a long time, so another one’s going to have to take its place.  I’m going to see what I can find tomorrow, but we’ll have to see how it goes.  And there’s a little work in the bathroom I want to do, too.  I’d say tomorrow would be the earliest, but I’d expect the day after to be safe.”

      “Nice of you to punch a hole in my fantasy.”

      “While I’m sure Skinny’s holes figure _heavily_ in your fantasies, kindly keep your filthy thoughts to yourself.  Anyway, I want to do a trial run with you tomorrow on those stairs.  If the results aren’t good, then we’re going to put a hold on your grand plan for a few more days.”

      “Don’t do that to me, Sam.”

      “Sorry, Gregtastic, but I’m not going to see all my hard work tossed in the crapper because you spring a leak on the way to your love nest.  Slow and steady…”

      “Is fucking boring!”

      “Yeah… I have to agree, but you’re not at the point where you can be as cavalier as you and I both know makes life a lot more fun.  And it’s one trip, per day.  I’ve already told Skinny that you get _one_ trip on those stairs, at max, every day.  Now, I’m thinking it’s down in the morning and back up at night, so if you want a mid-afternoon nap in your new bed, don’t expect to come back down.  And no trying to sneak down for a midnight snack, either.”

      “You’re worse than a grandmother.”

      “But better looking, so I’m happy.  You’re doing good, Greg… don’t push for crap that will make you do _not_ good.”

Lestrade scowled, but didn’t have an argument to offer besides ‘I want!,’ which that wasn’t going to get him very far.  And was incredibly infantile.

      “I’ll try.”

      “That’s the brother-in-law I know and love.”

Now that scowl was turned into something very different and Sam laughed at his patient’s smug satisfaction.

      “You know, I offered to pack Martin and Arthur off to Vegas for a quickie wedding, I’ll be happy to do the same for you and Skinny.”

      “It would almost be worth it to see the look on Mycroft’s face, but I think something a little less Hollywood buddy movie fits us better.”

      “Yeah… besides, drive-through wedding chapels don’t really let you show off your pretty wedding dress.”

      “That’s true.  Gotta think about those little details.”

The slight change in Lestrade’s voice put Sam on alert, but he knew if he didn’t prod a little, Lestrade would probably never share his thoughts.

      “Spill your guts, sicko.  What little worry just popped up in that ugly melon of yours?”

Lestrade gave a non-verbal reply, which earned him Sam’s own finger-based rebuttal, however, he realized he wouldn’t be left alone until he said something.

      “Getting married… it’s not going to… Mycroft’s not going to regret it, is he?”

That was not what Sam was expecting, but anything his patient wanted to talk about, they’d talk about until he got it out of his system.

      “Any reason you’d think he would?”

      “He does important work, work that requires he be absolutely calculating and unemotional… is being married to me going to compromise his ability to do that?”

Sam had to concede it was a valid concern and he honestly wasn’t sure which answer was going be more upsetting.

      “No.  My brother is who he is and that’s not going to change just because he found you.  It’s a nice thought, that he’ll become a more gooey person because of you and the rest of the clods in his life, but I can assure you he’s seen that precise thing happen to someone at some point and watched their reassignment to a cozy, non-important desk job strike at lightning speed.  His brain has always been able to compartmentalize and it’s going to be even more critical to him to do it now because he’s got more to protect that he did before.  There are more people in his life he cares for now, besides Sherlock, and they’ve got their own lives that take them places he has to make certain are safe.  He can’t do that making emotionally-based decisions, so he won’t.  If a situation needs a brutal, unflinching hit, he’ll do it and won’t think twice.  But, it might hurt more than it used to once he’s done it.”

Lestrade nodded and thought about what Sam said.  He hoped Sam was right.  As difficult as it was to think about the awful things his fiancé probably had to do sometimes, he was convinced Mycroft wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.  Mycroft was efficient and needless cruelty wasn’t efficient.  It wasted time and resources and destroyed trust you might need later.  That wasn’t Mycroft… that wasn’t Mycroft at all.

      “Ok… that’s good to know.  I don’t want him to suffer in any way because of me.”

      “Too late.  He’s losing his obscene mattress.”

      “How obscene?”

      “My thoughts were very impure.  I may have named it, too.”

      “Oh god… I cannot wait.”

      “Then be a good boy so we can get you there as soon as possible.”

      “I’ll try… I promise I’ll try.”

      “Good enough for me.  I think I’ll go see about dinner.  I was on my way there when I got sidetracked by the stench of your desperation.”

      “Funny man.  Anyway, I think I smell something worse coming from the kitchen.”

      “Burning rosemary… almost like incense, isn’t it?”

      “Well, this is basically a commune right now, so that fits.”

      “And not one willing and limber lady on the premises for the free-love hour.”

      “Life is hard, sometimes.”

      “Tell me about it.”

__________

Keep Arthur from burning down the house last night – check.  Have quick chat with John about Grego’s relocation – check.  Ignore noises coming from Grego’s sickroom when going to make a quick check and back slowly away from the door – check.  Do mattress research and get one ordered – check.  Get Sherlock to come and pick up Arthur for a day – check.  Seethe that Douglas had a lunch date with a very pretty optician – check.  Get Skinny out of the house and not repeat last night’s noises in sickroom – check.  Catch John up on sickroom noises and tell him to give Greg a very invasive physical for revenge – check.  Get Martin in his mittens and booties and out the door – final check.

      “Sam…  are you certain Arthur is going to be alright with Sherlock?  I mean… I’m not sure investigating a series of armed robberies is something Arthur should be part of.”

      “Martin… they’re targeting toy stores, probably to resell the crap cheap for Christmas.  And they’re not using real knives.”

      “What?”

      “I had Greg make a call.  They found one on the street at the last scene and it was as fake as politician’s smile.  The fuzz is keeping that quiet in case the perps change their MO because they worry about being challenged at their next hit.”

      “What in the world have you been reading?”

      “Only the best, baby.”

      “Oh god… but you’re sure Arthur’s going to be alright?”

      “Babylock is just going to find out who these punks are and pass the info along to the cops.  Besides it’s some friends of one of the delivery drivers, anyway, and by the time Sherlock figures that out, Arthur will have had a day questioning people in toy stores.   And toy warehouses.  Maybe even toy manufacturers.”

Martin had to admit that sounded like a day Arthur would talk about for months…

      “How do you even know that, though?  If Sherlock doesn’t…”

Sam just tapped the side of his nose and grinned as he yanked Martin into a shop the captain would normally not set one foot inside, then dragged him towards the front.

      “And here’s our first stop.  You won’t find what you’re looking for in one of the lah-de-dah jewelry stores, so you gotta get creative.  Luckily, young people love to wear lots of silver.”

Martin looked around the small, eclectic shop with some degree of horror, but had couldn’t deny the case of silver trinkets staring him in the face.

      “Now, we’re going to take the day to roam around and get a good idea of what’s available.  If you see something you like, make a note of it and we can come back.  If nothing catches your fancy, we try new places tomorrow.  We’ve got Skinny’s taxi service at our disposal, so a little field trip isn’t going to be a problem.”

Taking a deep breath, Marin focused on the trays of silver rings on offer and had to admit Sam was right about there being a lot of variety.  Much of it was simply horrible, but there were also many selections that were simpler and suitable for a wedding band.  Which they might be, actually, since the same design often came in a thicker and thinner build, like he’d seen for a man’s and woman’s band online.   That actually made him feel a lot better.  Even if they weren’t true wedding bands, they were made for a couple to wear and made things seem less… strange.

      “Finally decided I’m not lying?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Your confidence is awe inspiring.  Here, hold on.”

Sam smiled brightly at the young woman patiently waiting on them to ask a question and pointed to a smallish band that looked to be about Martin’s size.

      “Try this on and tell me how it feels.”

Martin wondered if there was any disease one could contract from metal and carefully slipped the ring onto the appropriate finger.

      “See?  It doesn’t look bad, does it?  Not the style you want, I’m sure, but if you saw that on someone, the first thing that went through your mind wouldn’t be that it wasn’t gold.  Now, how’s the weight?”

Martin wiggled his fingers and moved his hand around a little and found, surprisingly, it felt too light.

      “Something a bit heavier?  I didn’t think I’d want a ring with any heft, but after wearing this…”

Marti lifted his wrist and was pounced upon by the girl behind the counter who immediately snapped a picture to send to, apparently, everyone she knew.

      “I understand that.  A really light ring can feel a little fake and… lacking in presence.  What about that one?”

Sam got the girl’s attention again and had her pull out a fairly plain band with a few incised designs for Martin to try.

      “Oh… that’s not bad, actually.”

Heavy enough feel important, but not so heavy that his finger was lagging behind the others when he tried to move it.  And, though he did _not_ like the style, Sam was right… seeing it on someone’s hand wouldn’t bring a question about money to the front of his mind.

      “Good.  So we’ve got that part down and now we just have to find a look that does it for you.  And, as you can see, you’ve got a lot of possibilities to choose from.  I promise, Martin… we _will_ find something you’re going to love.  More importantly, it will be something Arthur will love.  So, let’s take a good look through this selection, jot down what you like and we’ll move on.  And there are other choices, too.  Titanium or stainless steel… I didn’t mention those when the Crown Prince of Noses in the Air was around, but they _are_ good options.  I’m not sure if we’ll find those on the street, but that’s what a computer is for.”

Martin suddenly felt the least anxious he’d been since Arthur set the wedding timeline and smiled at his cousin.

      “Then what are we waiting for?”

      “You to actually get your head in the game.”

      “My head is ready to play.”

      “Good job.  You look and I’ll chat with the lovely young thing sending your engagement bracelet all over the interwebs.”

      “She’s half your age!”

      “Which means she’ll actually be able to keep up with me.  Let me know when you’re ready to try the next place.”

And, true to his word, Sam moved to the other end of the counter and broke out his most charming grin, leaving Martin alone to think.  Which was the way he liked it, actually.  He didn’t think well with someone looking over his shoulder, as he’d proved time and time again with Douglas, so maybe this was his cousin’s way of being helpful.  Or not.  Regardless, he had a lot to sort through and this was only the first stop.  This was going to be a long day but… he finally had some confidence that this was going to go well.  It had to.  His Arthur deserved nothing less…

__________

Normally, a day of shopping would have sent him suicidal, but, Sam was actually enjoying himself.  Not that he wanted to admit it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if life had turned out a different way, his son might have been the one he was taking on this little excursion.  Shopping for rings for the girl or boy he’d fallen in love with… he’d wanted that, actually.  To be a good dad and give his son a happy life with all the opportunities he ever wanted.  So… maybe helping out Martin and Arthur was a chance to get a little taste of that.  And helping out Skinny and Greg.  Sherlock and John, too.  Silly old man trying to get a chance to touch the life that vanished a long time ago.  But, as long as he could truly be helpful, what did it matter if he had a daydream or two along the way…

      “That one?”

      “Good spotting, Marty.  You’re learning to pick up on the signs of a hippy shop a mile away.”

      “I don’t think hippies exist anymore, actually.”

      “The dream will never die, Martin.  Come on, we’ll check it out and then grab some lunch.”

Martin pushed through the door with far more assurance than he had when their shopping trip began and headed straight for the silver selection he knew they’d offer.  Sam had been right… lots of options to work through and he already had an impressive list of choices he wanted to revisit later this afternoon.  It had been… good.  This was going well.  Arthur had been taking the lead for all the wedding preparations, but this was all his and he’d _wanted_ it to go well.  Maybe he wouldn’t come home with rings in his pocket, but he’d wanted to have made a good start on it and not dithered himself into an indecisive ball of fluster by the time he rejoined his fiancé.  As painful as it was, he had to credit his moronic cousin for making this less stressful than he’d imagined.  Sam was a plague of a man, but had his non-plaguish moments and was being a surprising help, the least of which was keeping salespeople from fueling the dreaded indecision and fluster with their brand of friendly assistance.

      “See anything?”

      “A few possibilities.  And I think I’m narrowing down what I like, so it’s getting easier to eliminate choices.”

      “Good.  How much longer are you going to be?”

      “Already have her phone number?”

      “Oh, aren’t you funny.  And, yes.  More importantly, though, I’m about to die of hunger and Skinny will not be happy having a wedding and a funeral in the same month.  I’m not sure he could schedule all that time off.”

      “Then lunch, it is.  Arthur and I explored this area a bit and there was a little place a few streets over that looked good.”

      “Lead the way.”

Martin put away his notes and guided Sam to the café he’d noticed and decided to save time by ordering his cousin some wine as soon as the server brought the menus.

      “Smart boy.  I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

      “I’m the least offensive of your blood relations.”

      “Ok, there are two reasons I like you.”

The impending groom tried again, as he had many times these past weeks and could not for the life of him remember Sam from his childhood.

      “It’s ok, Martin.”

      “What’s ok?”

      “That you don’t remember me.”

      “How did you… oh, don’t bother to answer.”

      “Good, because I like being a man of mystery.  I didn’t _want_ you young sprouts remembering me, kiddo.  You couldn’t hurt for someone you didn’t know existed.  And you didn’t, so my job is done.”

      “I know… and it makes sense in a perverse way, which is appropriate for you, but…”

      “Yeah?”

      “Do you think that one day… I know it’s silly, but…”

      “ _Yeah_?”

      “Could we talk about when I was young?  Very young, I mean.”

      “Young enough for you and Sherlock to be little pals?”

      “I suppose, yes.”

Sam smiled at Martin and decided their talk would include, as well, a lot of the time after that, even if he had to drag it out of his cousin with a pair of pliers.  The more shit you shoveled out, the more room there was for better things to fill in the hole.

      “Sure.  Anytime you’d like.  I’ve got a lot of pictures from that time, too, and I’ll drag them out for you to take a look at.  Make a copy of, too, if you think you’d want them.”

      “I would, actually.  Arthur would never forgive me if I didn’t grab every photo I possibly could.  Thank you… I look forward to our talk, too.”

      “So do I.  Anything to embarrass Babylock is a great way to pass the time.”

Martin grinned and had to admit that sounded like a very good thing to him.  But, while he had Sam in a relatively calm mood, he decided to broach another topic that had been tossing around in his head.

      “Spit it out, Martin.  You think any harder your hair’s going to catch fire from the friction.”

      “Nice, very nice.  But… I did have a question.  If you don’t mind.”

      “I won’t know that until I hear it.”

      “Oh, yes, that’s true.  Well… you were a husband, so must have some idea of how it works… I was just wondering… what it takes to be a good one.”

Sam was not at all sure he could give a useful answer to that because, in his humble opinion, the only reason his marriage worked was because his wife was a saint, but he’d do his best.  At least, he could give advice using his beatified bride as a model.

      “What you do now, basically.  You accept your spouse for who they are and don’t make it your mission to make them fit some ideal you have in your head.  That doesn’t mean you don’t step and say something when they’ve gone down a bad road or are doing something crazy or unsafe, but you can’t try to make them a different person.  You already do a great job of that with Arthur, so you’ve got that part licked.  Then, you take what they say and do seriously.  Show them respect.  If they’re scared or mad or worried about something, you don’t brush it off.  It they’re excited about something, you _also_ don’t brush it off.  If something is important to them, it’s important to you.  You don’t have to join in or even share their feelings, but you respect theirs and if they want to go off and join a club or not go to something you want to do, then that’s fine.  And that’s another thing… you don’t have to spend every second together.  You love each other; that’s not going to change because Arthur wants to go to a class to learn puppet making or you want to lose yourself in some technical book about vintage aircraft.”

Martin listened carefully and had to admit that Sam’s advice sounded… real.  And made a lot of sense.

“What else… oh yeah… apologize when you fuck up and accept theirs when it’s their turn to do something stupid.  Support them in their dreams and goals, even if it’s just listening when they talk about it.  Don’t make them wonder if you love them, tell them and show them that they’re the most important person in your life.  Frankly, Martin… you do all of this already.  You do right by Arthur and I don’t see how he could ever find someone any better than you.  But, once you get hitched, you give me a call anytime you have questions or just want to talk. Being married isn’t easy, don’t think it is.  It’s wonderful and amazing, but you have to work at it and it can be good to have someone to talk to now and then.”

Martin nodded and tried not to blush at the praise, very happy that the server arrived to take their order so he could use the moment to compose himself.  One thing he seemed to be able to count on his chaotic family for was reassurance and encouragement that he wasn’t going to make a complete mess of his marriage.  And it was good to know that the reassurance wasn’t going to end once he and Arthur exchanged their vows.

      “Good… that’s good to know.  I’m sure I’ll have a lot of questions once Arthur and I… well, we’ve not had a lot of opportunity to live together… just him and I, I mean.”

      “It’ll be an adjustment.  Living with someone for a little while is like bunking with someone on vacation.  You’re on your best behavior and don’t necessarily behave exactly the way you’d normally do at home alone.  When you’re married to someone, you can’t keep that up forever and it takes time for them to learn all of your habits, for you to learn theirs and for the both of you to get them to mesh properly.  Getting the domestic equilibrium set up takes time and there are going to be bumps along the way.  But all of that is normal, so don’t sweat it.  And it’s a big trial run coming up, right?  A few months in your own little love nest?”

      “Which Arthur is looking forward to immensely.  I am, too, of course, but…”

      “Afraid you won’t be able to pry him out of Mycroft’s enchanted cottage?”

      “Yes!  You saw him… he loved that house.  Within a week, he’s going to have it set up just as he likes it and will have the kitchen table covered in catalogs for bird feeders and kitchen gadgets and gardening supplies… we won’t even be there in the spring for him to plant anything!”

      “So, he doesn’t plant anything there.  He gets some ideas for when you _do_ get a more permanent place.”

      “Which will not have property like that to plant flowers or vegetables or… even a tree to hang a feeder!”

      “Feeders can hang on hooks attached to windows.  Flowers and veggies can be planted in pots or window boxes.  Don’t get hung up on things like that, Martin.  When my wife and I started out, we barely had a pot to piss in and lived in the most uninspiring apartment in the universe.  That’s just more opportunity to use the ol’ noggin and be creative.  You make your place whatever you want it to be.  Colorful, lots of plants, a pet or two… it doesn’t have to be big or new or have a yard… you’d be surprised what you can do if you put your mind to it.  Just think of it as giving Arthur a blank canvas… you know he’s going to take that and run with it like nobody else.  Seriously, that’s not even an issue.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “Do you want me to beat it into your head?”

      “I’d rather you didn’t.”

      “Then just take my word for it.  You worry about the important thing, which is Arthur, and the rest will fall into place.  If you really get jammed up, think about the line of idiots ready to step in and help.  And I’m not just talking about Skinny and his bottomless pocket.  From what I hear, the whole motley crew pitched in when you took a page out of my book and skipped down the chemically-altered trail.  And they rallied around Arthur while that was going on, too.  So maybe John and Sherlock have to go to Fitton to help you paint walls or sniff out a good deal if that fucking van of yours finally craps out for good.  Well, Sherlock will just sit and complain, but John will pick up a brush and have a beer with you when it’s done.  And, if you have trouble with some morons in your new neighborhood, watch how fast Greg makes a call and has the locals taking an interest.  _I’m_ not good for much, but I’m sure there’s some way I could lend a hand if the occasion called for it.”

Martin nibbled at his meal, which had arrived and sat untouched while he listened to his cousin, and thought that Sam’s way of helping might just be to listen to his questions, because there would probably be a lot of them.  Everyone else… well, besides Douglas… had their own domestic issues to deal with, but Sam, perhaps, had extra time to spare for the occasional evening phone call.

      “You’re right.  I know you’re right, but maybe I just need to hear that now and again.”

      “I’ll be happy to remind you.  Now, eat up because we still have work ahead of us.”

Yes, they did, and Martin was freshly energized for whatever the day was going to bring.

__________

Sam didn’t need any Holmesian superpowers to know their quest was at an end.  Martin was actually caressing that ring so tenderly it was even odds the two would need a moment alone in a minute.  But, since they were in a public place and Martin wouldn’t do well in prison…

      “Martin… may I now pronounce you man and ring?”

      “Hmmm… oh.  Oh… I suppose I did get a little carried away.  It’s nice, though, isn’t it?”

      “Very nice.  Not run of the mill, but not something you’d expect see thrown from a Mardi Gras float.  Subtle, but complements your bracelet nicely.  You’re in uniform or wearing a sweater and your bracelet isn’t visible, the ring would be that unique touch that will appeal to Arthur, but it’s not going to be uncomfortable for you to wear while you do your piloty things.  I think it’s a good choice.  As long as you do.”

Martin looked at the ring again and turned it over and over in his hand.  Then it was the slip on-slip off a few times.  And the wear and wave around a little bit.  Followed by the wear and check out the look in every mirror in the shop, in all possible poses.

      “It doesn’t look cheap.”

      “Nope, it doesn’t.”

      “And it’s not weirdly shiny.”

      “Again, nope.”

      “Arthur and I bought Mycroft a tie pin made of something expensive and… it didn’t look much different from this.”

Platinum was the word Martin was looking for and Sam was sure of that because his brother wasn’t shy about wearing their gift.

      “No, it doesn’t.”

      “It feels good… the weight’s right and it’s not pushing my fingers apart like some I tried on.”

      “That’s important, since you’ll be wearing it a _long_ time.”

      “It looks… nice, too.  The style I mean.”

      “We’ve already agreed on that.”

      “Yes… so we have.  I think…”

      “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

      “I think this is it.”

Hallelujah!

      “I definitely believe you made a good choice.  And, how lucky you are that I took the time to get Arthur’s ring size, so we can grab the right one for him.  Unless you want to bring him here, first, to look at it.”

      “I probably should but… no.  I want it to be a surprise.”

      “Smart.  Arthur is a man who does love a surprise.”

Martin laughed and nodded his head, never taking his eyes off of what was going to be his wedding ring.

      “That he does. “

      “Going to spring it on him at the altar?”

      “No, just in case he doesn’t like it.  But, it’ll be enough of a surprise when I show it to him tonight.”

      “What say we make sure, then, that his majesty doesn’t have to cook so he can devote his full attention to his new trinket?”

      “Take-away?”

      “Oh yeah.  Tons.”

      “Arthur _has_ been doing a lot of kitchen duty lately.”

      “And there’s still chicken in the fridge for him to set on fire.”

      “Yeah… no.  I think we have our dinner plan.”

      “Mycroft’s smoke detectors will be relieved.”

__________

      “Babylock!  Long, hard day solving crimes?”

      “Sherlock?  Where’s Arthur?”

      “Arthur is having a shower.  He became acquainted with an air brush during our last stop and now needs to wash purple paint out of his hair.  Water-based, fortunately.  And for your information, Sherrinford, yes, ‘solving’ is the proper word.  The matter was a simple one; one of the delivery drivers for a toy distributor thought to supplement his holiday income by having his friends commit the thefts after he had made a delivery to the stores, so the quantity of the desired merchandise was at a maximum.  Foolishly, he believed that if a series of robberies were perpetrated it would be less likely to trace back to him than a single, large one at the main warehouse.  His idiocy, as usual, was his undoing.”

Sam smirked at Martin who simply shook his head and happily reminded himself that he only shared _some_ of the Holmes blood.

      “Good job, Sherlock.  And I’m sure Arthur was a big help in showing that asshole the steel-toed boot of justice.”

      “Arthur, as expected, was instrumental to the investigation, though, Martin, I hope you have sufficient luggage space for the quantity of toys he was gifted by the various individuals he questioned.  I believe he has plans to donate them to some local charity; I don’t know which, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Martin laughed, but his heart swelled with pride for his fiancé.  Arthur was the kindest, most decent man the world had ever known.  And he solved crimes.

      “I expect we’ll manage.  Thank you, Sherlock.”

      “For what?”

      “Giving Arthur a good day.  He treasures them and I’m happy you don’t mind giving him a little adventure.”

Sherlock scrutinized his cousin, but couldn’t find any evidence of sarcasm in Martin’s voice or demeanor.

      “Then, you are welcome.”

      “Are you two going to kiss now?”

      “Your presence is neither necessary nor desired, Sherrinford.”

      “Oh Sherlock, I’m quaking in my boots.  So, I’m going to go slip out of these boots and into something that really shows off what I can shake.”

Leaving Sherlock and Martin to their disgust and to start getting the food ready to serve, Sam made good his word and changed out of his shoes and into trousers that didn’t ride quite so close to his red line of agony.  New rule... no trying to look good when he was in for a day of walking around London.  Sitting on his ass in London, yes.  Hours of walking and standing, no.

When he felt slightly recovered, and in need of a large and hearty drink, the doctor shuffled out of his room and followed his nose to Lestrade’s room, where his and Martin’s hard work was laid out for everyone to sample.  Including his middle brother, who had, from the umbrella still hooked over his arm, just arrived home.

      “Doctor Sam!  Now, everybody’s here!”

      “And look at you without a trace of purple in your hair!”

      “I almost didn’t want to wash it out, since it was a very nice color, but it was getting rather sticky and crackly and my scalp was starting to itch, which meant I had purple hands since I had to scratch, even though Mr. Sherlock told me to use mind over matter, instead.  I still don’t quite understand what that is, but he said we could work on it another time.  And Skip said you had a great day, too, but he wouldn’t tell me what was great about it, so I have to assume it’s something sneaky and since I don’t know if it’s bad sneaky or good sneaky I don’t know if anyone needs a sit down for a little chat.”

Mycroft settled into a vacant chair and stroked Lestrade’s arm in greeting.  Apparently, today had been a busy one for their family.

      “If you decide a sit down is required, I’ll take Martin’s share on top of mine so he can enjoy his dinner.”

Sam gave Martin a look and received a nod in return as Martin took a deep breath and put his hand in his pocket.

      “Sam and I… well you know Sam said he’d help with the wedding and so we decided to make a start on that today…”

Arthur thought a moment, then gasped as a memory lit up in his head, while everyone else in the room smiled and crossed their fingers for the captain.

      “I think I found something, but if you don’t like it, I can go out and find something else.”

      “Sir, I doubt Arthur can properly respond if you keep your hand in your pocket like a shy schoolboy.”

Martin scowled at Douglas, but drew out his hand and the pair of rings it contained.

      “Remember, Arthur… it’s ok to say you don’t like them.”

With mentally crossed fingers, Martin opened his hand and extended it for Arthur to see, though the whole room leaned forward to their own better look.

      “Skip…”

      “Arthur?”

      “ _Skip_ …”

      “Arthur!”

The steward swept Martin up into a crushing hug and did a little dance while Martin’s feet dangled several inches above the floor.

      “I love them!  They’re perfect!  They look like air!”

Martin was very happy that the confused looks around the room meant he wasn’t the only one who needed further explanation.

      “Air, Arthur?”

      “Yes!  They’re silver, which is an airy color, though Greg’s not very airy, but that’s probably since it would be hard for hair to be made of air, even if it does rhyme.  And they’re swooshy, just like the wind.  And all of that is brilliant enough on its own, but since we fly in the air, it’s especially brilliant!  Can I?”

Arthur waggled his finger and Martin handed him the larger ring, resisting the urge to slip it on his fiancé’s finger, because he wanted to make certain the first time he did that, it was for a very special occasion.

      “AAAAHHHH!!!!  Look!!!!!”

Arthur hopped around the room, showing off the ring and then did it again with his sleeve pushed up so that it could be seen with his bracelet.

      “This is BRILLIANT!!!!”

Another dancing hug nearly broke Martin’s ribs, but he decided that if the shards punctured his lungs, he’d die a happy man.

      “Oh, Skip… these are the best wedding rings in the whole world and you’re the best fiancé in the whole world and are going to be the best husband in the whole world and WEDDING!!!!!”

Sherlock used the distraction to steal a carton of egg rolls and John simply didn’t have the heart to chide him.  As long as his partner was willing to share.

      “I’m glad you like them, Arthur.”

      “I do, Skip, I really do.  And you like them, too, right?”

      “If Martin liked them any more, kid, he’d be marrying them and not you.  Don’t worry about a thing.”

Arthur’s bright smile lit up the room at Sam’s reassurance and did another little dance, this time without using Martin as a prop.

      “So, I know where to get my cake and invitations, and we have our rings… it’s all actually happening!”

      “And I assure you, dear boy, that everything will be in place when your happy day arrives.  As I see it, Gregory and Sherrinford have discharged their duties and it is now time for the rest of us to make headway on our respective roles.  There is more than sufficient time for all forces to be marshaled and we are all very eager to get our opportunity to contribute.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft!  Oh, we should be eating!  This deserves a celebration and celebrations need food, which we already have.  Brilliant!”

Martin cleared his throat and held out his hand, for Arthur to sheepishly return the ring, then made a grand show of filling a plate of food for his future husband.  As everyone followed suit, Lestrade got Arthur started recounting the details of the day’s case, ensuring dinner was accompanied by very spirited entertainment.  By the time the food was depleted and a film had been consumed, as well, Mycroft shooed everyone out of the room to continue the party elsewhere while he had some time alone with his own future husband.

      “Hah!  Now, this was an eventful day!”

      “I concur, my dear.  Truly it was replete with an abundance of successes.”

      “And did you see how relaxed Martin looked?  I mean after Arthur didn’t throw the rings back in his face?”

      “I did.  This issue has been weighing on him terribly and now that he has proof his concerns were unfounded, I am certain he will enjoy a greater measure of confidence about the remainder of the wedding and marriage issues.”

      “Good.  They’re a great couple and I don’t want to see anything spoil that, even one of _them_.”

      “Quite.  And you, Gregory?  Shall I begin shopping for a set of rings or will we do that jointly?”

      “Oh, I want to be in on that.  Me and you picking out rings together?  That’s too romantic to pass up.”

Mycroft removed and set aside his jacket, toed off his shoes, and settled himself in the bed next to his partner.

      “Then I shall not deny you the opportunity.”

      “And, I guess we need to decide how long after Martin and Arthur’s wedding we’re going to make our own announcement.”

      “True, and I do admit to an eagerness for that very thing.”

      “Me, too.  I am more than ready to be Greg… whatever my last name is going to be.  That’s another thing we have to decide on.”

      “So many delightful details.”

      “It’s something we can work on when we’re cozy and warm upstairs in our bed.  Notice… I said ‘our’ and not ‘your.’  I may be slow, but I’m learning.”

Mycroft shared Lestrade’s giggle and leaned over to take a long kiss from his fiancé’s lips.

      “And I shall, of course, reward your progress at our earliest convenience.”

      “Yes!  The house should be in bed in an hour or two, except for Sam, but he skittered off quickly enough last night after I gave him my little vocal performance, so I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”

      “That _was_ most rascally of you, my dear.  But highly warranted and exceedingly entertaining.”

      “Poor man, has to be my minder at night and spends all day with wedding preparations.  I’m not sure he’s even slept in his new flat.”

      “Sherrinford has little need for sleep, much like Sherlock and myself, so do not worry yourself too greatly on that score.”

      “Well, if you ever need any incentive to come to bed, I’ll be happy to provide it.”

      “I suddenly predict many bouts of insomnia in my future.”

      “Aren’t I a lucky man?”

      “As lucky as me, I daresay.”

Another kiss occupied several pleasurable minutes, then Lestrade lay back and smiled as he thought about the weeks ahead.

      “So, what’s next on the great wedding list?  Douglas has to work on the food, John and Sherlock are going to help with the type of cake…”

      “The location still needs to be decided upon, as well as the exact date.  And the ribaldry of the pre-wedding parties, of course.”

There was a tiny smirk on Mycroft’s lips that Lestrade positively adored, and not only because it meant his lover had an idea.

      “Ok, Mycroft… what are you thinking?”

      “Heavens… that would spoil the surprise.”

      “Answer this, then… am I going to get to participate in any of it?”

      “Depending on the timing, yes.  If we wait until just before the wedding day, then you might be sufficiently healed to participate in at least some of the activities.”

      “ _Some_ of the activities?”

      “I thought I enunciated that most clearly.”

      “They’re going to like this, aren’t they?”

      “I believe so.  One’s farewell to bachelorhood should be an event to remember, is that not the case?”

      “Oh yes… that’s definitely something to be celebrated.”

The excited gleam in Lestrade’s eye melted Mycroft’s heart and he repositioned carefully so a rubbing of his partner’s stomach could commence.

      “I agree.  Our turn shall come, Gregory…”

      “That it will… and then we’ve got the rest of our lives to enjoy the fact we _finally_ made it.”

      “The journey _has_ been a turbulent one.”

      “Nothing good comes easy, I suppose.”

      “Then our union shall be supremely, as you say, good.”

      “And for our next amazing feat, we’ll start working on Sherlock and John.”

      “Oh, most assuredly.  They shall surely stagnate in simple cohabitation if we do not intercede.”

      “Something else we can start planning in our new bed.”

      “And new bath.”

      “Ok, now you’ve got me wanting to get clean.”

      “Do you feel well enough for another bout of bathing?”

      “I think so.  I’m a little tired, but that didn’t stop me last time.”

      “Very well, then.  I will gather some clothing for you and change into something more casual, myself.  I shall just be a moment, my dear.”

Mycroft gave Lestrade’s cheek a peck, the left the bed to begin taking out clothes from the drawers and closet.  The DI watched his fiancé work and let the image of doing this in _their_ bedroom run through his mind.  Only another day or so and that would be a reality.  And it was a reality that was only the first in a long line of new realities that they were going to share… something that he, for one, was more than ready for…


	20. Chapter 20

      “Oohhh… that looks scrumptious!”

      “No.”

      “But…”

      “No.”

      “Oh fine…  Yes!  Oh, that’s definitely…”

      “Again, no.”

      “But why?”

      “Continue, please.”

      “Ok… Ah!  Here!  Yes! This will be perfect!”

      “Once again, I must exercise my executive veto and consign that particular information brochure to the ghastly and grubby pile.”

Arthur pouted, but followed Douglas’s directive and set the brochure for the fish and chips shop with the one for his favorite pizza purveyor and the café where everything they served began with the letter ‘G.’  So far, this morning’s work to find the perfect wedding caterer was not going particularly smoothly.

      “I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll have _anything_ fun to eat at the wedding.”

      “Arthur, though I have experienced a somewhat more enlightened view on your personal culinary preferences these past days, I am in no manner convinced that the rest of the world is quite ready for your version of haute cuisine.  If you truly have your heart set on Garlicky Grapes or a greasy mass of chips and aquarium escapees, then I will direct your plate be prepared exactly to your specifications.  For the rest of your guests, however, a more demure menu is called for.  Now, do you have any information that was not printed off of someone’s cousin’s inkjet and possibly professionally prepared?”

      “Oh, you want a shiny one.”

      “Yes, it is a maxim of catering quality that one’s brochure be a shiny one.”

      “I’ll have to write that down.  And here… here are some of my shiny ones.”

Douglas accepted the brochures and booklets and breathed a sigh of relief.  Actual restaurants and catering firms prepared to outfit a wedding with food appropriate for china and metallic cutlery.

      “That’s the ticket.  Hmmm… certainly a few possibilities here… now, how many courses do you want?”

      “Come again?”

      “Courses, Arthur.  Do you want a formal service or something more abbreviated?”

      “That didn’t help.”

      “Oh dear lord… how many different plates, with different types of food, do you want to serve?”

      “Oh, that’s easy.  LOTS!”

      “So… six?”

      “Oh no, lots more than that.”

      “More than six?”

      “Lots more.”

      “I suppose we could stretch that to eight, though the time required to dine…”

      “I don’t think that’s enough.”

      “Arthur… despite your cousin’s status as His Majestic Majesty, you are not hosting a royal wedding.”

      “Well, I know that, but I don’t actually see the problem.  I mean, Skip and I have been to lots of restaurants where they serve lots and lots of different types of food and I thought we could just put out those lots and lots of different types of food and let people pick what they want.”

      “A buffet?  Are you suffering a brain injury and laboring under the belief that you are having some form of American hillbilly shindig?”

      “I don’t think so, but I’ll ask Doctor Watson to check.”

      “Arthur, you are positioned to have any of the best London chefs prepare for you a wedding feast that would make the city’s food critics take to gladiatorial combat to earn a taste and you want to set out tubs of indefinable meat and veg for your guests to rummage through like pigs at their trough?”

      “You know, they have piglets that are incredibly tiny and very cute, so that wouldn’t really be a bad thing to have at the wedding.  Everyone could have a piglet to play with and…”

      “ _And_ we are well and truly in the thick of the corncob-pipe smoking arena of party planning.  No, Arthur, there will not be a petting zoo or personal-sized piglets associated with your wedding celebration.”

The steward began to look so disappointed that Douglas reluctantly decided _some_ concession could be made.

      “However, perhaps you could find an assortment of…soft toy piglets to present to your guests as a remembrance of your nuptials.”

      “Brilliant!  Yes!  I visited a lot of toy stores for my last case with Mr. Sherlock and I did see some cute little piggies, so I’m sure I can buy enough for everyone to have their very own.  Thanks, Douglas!  That’s a super idea!”

And the potential for dancing on a floor littered with straw was handily avoided.

      “You’re very welcome.  Now, back to the matter at hand.”

      “Yes!  Lots of tasty food that people can eat and eat and then dance and dance and eat and eat more.  And then have cake.”

Douglas felt his vision of expertly –prepared plates and restaurant-quality table service  vanishing into the wind and rather desperately rifled through the information Arthur had handed him, along with the other shiny-surfaced choices in the steward's gargantuan pile.  Though, truth be told, he had to admit that buffet-style wedding catering wasn’t quite what he remembered from his own trips down the altar. 

      “Oh, those look good.  Lots of color and it all looks brilliant!”

      “Yes, the food stylists had a right go at things, but the question is what lies within all of that color and sauce and dough and crust.”

      “I suspect it might be food.”

      “Very good, Arthur.  As always you get right to the heart of things.  And behold!  A list of the supposed food that we are currently investigating.”

Douglas hmm’ed, I see’d and interesting’d, then passed the menu selections to Arthur.

      “Yes!  Good!  We’re done!  No, wait… where are the egg rolls?”

      “In a small white container in the bin, I expect.”

      “I know for a fact that is not possible, since Mr. Sherlock would never let an egg roll live in the bin.  So, where are they?”

      “That particular item does not seem to be on offer, I’m afraid.  However, this is only one of the possible caterers among the legion you have ready to inspect.  Perhaps another offers the sanctified grease… I mean egg… rolls as an option.”

      “Well, I hope so!  Mr. Sherlock does like them and it would be terrible to have lots and lots of different types of food and not one he really enjoys.”

      “Arthur, your guest list, which you have yet to decide upon but likely boasts more individuals than Dupin, shall be replete with people who have a favorite nibble and you can’t make all of them available in the proverbial food bag.”

      “Why not?”

Douglas’s hope for a day making appointments to sample London’s finest cuisine was perilously endangered and he decided drastic action was called for.

      “Because, you don’t actually know you guest roster and, therefore, cannot provide your chosen catering firm your favorite-foods list.  Now, I am quite certain that between the two of us, and Sir, if he deigns to remove his nose from his book, we can make choices that will have mass appeal, each one sampled and verified by my discriminating palate.  Here, let us take a page from Henry Ford’s book of efficiency and form an assembly line.  You hand to me any brochure that meets your lofty standards and I shall make a second pass to ensure its suitability for the potential diversity of wedding guests.  Then, we shall set meetings with the most exemplary candidates and move on to the second phase of the process – tasting.”

      “Hurray!”

Something with which the First Officer heartily agreed.  And since he would be making the final decisions as to the nature of the samplings, a double hurray might be in order.  Silently, of course.

      “Ok, I am ready to proceed.”

      “Very professional, Arthur.  Martin would be highly impressed.”

Arthur grinned brightly and began to hand every single brochure to Douglas, one by one, since, according to the steward, they all were brilliant and Douglas congratulated himself on the success of his plan.  Sorting the brochures into the yea’s and nay’s, he took the final yea pile and made a second pass through to further cull the wheat from the chaff and finished with a manageable number to investigate more thoroughly.

      “Here.  The candidates that were chosen to make it to the next round of our contest.”

Douglas passed his stack to Arthur who, predictably, pronounced every one of them brilliant.

      “This is going to be amazing!  All of this tasty food for people to eat! With the music and the dancing and the charades…”

      “No.  Absolutely not.  Under no circumstances.  Never, ever as long as the sun burns in the heavens.”

      “Why?  What do you have against dancing?”

Douglas rubbed the bridge of his nose, then snatched back the catering brochures and motioned Arthur to follow him out of the kitchen.  Words would not be spoken at this point, so his attention could remain fully focused on the sweet and savory morsels that were soon to cross his palate.  Maybe Mycroft could hire a mime to engage Arthur in a rousing game of charades at the wedding reception.  Actually, if the hat was passed among the guests, the cost would be covered without any difficulty at all and, most certainly, with an abundance of gratitude.

__________

Lestrade hummed happily and John gave him a suspicious glare, checking for illicit materials hidden under the DI’s pillow.

      “What’s wrong with you?”

      “Poor John Watson… so sad and pathetic that he can’t even recognize happiness anymore.  Maybe I should find you a class on that or something.”

      “Did you do something I have to be very worried about?”

      “I think the likelihood of that over my lifetime is astonishingly large.”

      “Why are you smiling and humming!”

      “Because it’s hard to hum when I’m frowning.”

      “You’re useless.”

Well, that might be true, but Lestrade wasn’t quite ready to talk about his good mood.  It was a stupid, silly thing, anyway, but it meant something to him and he wanted to keep it to himself for the time being.  He’d called Mycroft at work.  It was something utterly banal, but it was the first time he’d done it as Mycroft’s fiancé.  The only occasions he’d phoned his lover in the past when he was at work was for Sherlock-related issues and today it was for something Mycroft absolutely adored – a favor for his family.  One phone call and someone on Mycroft’s staff had likely raced to the charge setting up tastings for Arthur and Douglas, who sped out of the house as soon as the call arrived to announce the appointment times.  And they would be gone for a long time since both had stated quite seriously that they intended to sample every possible menu option for each of the contenders.  For Arthur to formally declare that he wouldn’t likely be available to prepare dinner was telling quite the tale.

And it was fantastic!  To pick up the phone and ring Mycroft for a simple domestic thing.  He’d gotten lucky that his fiancé had been able to take the call immediately and that would not be true a great deal of the time, but even so, it was something normal.  A little act that all couples did and there was something very, very comforting about that.  He and Mycroft would never be a typical couple, but they would still have those flashes of normality that, at least for him, were extremely important.

      “That’s completely untrue.  You could sell my organs and see a tidy sum for your efforts.”

      “Well, _some_ of your organs.  Your liver’s rubbish by now and your brain was never good for much in the first place.”

      “Still plenty of bits worth a farthing or two, though.  Put it towards the great wedding fund.  Actually, that reminds me that I’ve got to find those two a gift.”

      “Any ideas?”

      “Not a one.  Just that I’ll probably have to keep Mycroft from buying them a Lamborghini.”

      “Mycroft would know better.  Can’t see for shite out of the back window and Martin is very safety-conscious.”

      “True.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  How much does a baby cost?  That would be a smashing wedding gift, as long as you put some air holes in the box.”

      “Ooh, good idea.  Why don’t you have Mycroft order a few to be delivered so we can see what options are available.”

      “Smart plan.  Mycroft’s very approving of well-informed decision making.”

      “Then there you have it.  And that won’t interfere with Sherlock’s and my gift of rail passes since babies travel free.”

      “I’m a very considerate person.”

      “A very considerate person who still hasn’t told me what’s going on in his brain so I can decide if you need some form of shock therapy.”

      “It’s nothing medically-related or… related to anything else you need to worry about.”

      “What does that even mean?”

      “I’m not going soft in the head or anything.”

      “Hard in the head is more like it, you stubborn bastard, but… ok, if you’re sure it’s nothing I need to know about then fine.  As it is, I have enough to worry about with Sam letting you prance up and down the stairs.”

      “I have to prance?  I hope he’s got a diagram for me to use to learn the steps.  It’s been a long time since I pranced and I’m not exactly sure I remember how.”

      “Very funny.  The only reason I’m going along with this is that the oaf promised me he ordered a good, firm mattress and that you’ll still spend the days down here where it’s easier to keep an eye on you.”

      “Just as long as you don’t try on keeping an eye on me at night.  If I find even _one_ video making the rounds of me and Mycroft enjoying out new mattress, your life won’t be worth a limp parsnip.”

      “Since Sherlock would come across it at some point and go completely and violently insane, you can count on that not happening.”

      “Good.  And before you ask, because I can see your tiny, nubby little gears working… it’s getting better.”

      “And you’re using “it” in the schoolboy-giggles-at-proper-vocabulary way, aren’t you?”

      “Twat.  And yes.”

      “I’m glad to hear it.  From both the friend and the doctor’s perspectives.”

      “Mycroft says I’m over 60%... eager.  Might be getting close to 70%.  He says I’m already there, but I know he’s just inflating my ego, since the other bit can’t quite inflate very well yet.”

John had to admit, to himself at least, that Mycroft was about the best possible caregiver someone in Greg’s condition could have.  Observant, analytical and the man certainly knew how to keep his partner’s spirits up… along with other things.

      “That’s good to know.  Again, wearing both hats.  You’re doing very well, recovery-wise and every sign of improvement is something to celebrate.  Which I’m sure you’ll be doing in that new bed.”

      “Of course I will.  I left my own bed here in London and haven’t seen it again!  A night in Arthur’s spare bedroom and then one of these monsters every other night since.”

Lestrade smacked the bed rails and then apologized to the piece of furniture so it wouldn’t think him ungrateful and do something evil in retribution.

      “I’m actually healing this nightmare of a chest and able for the very first time to spend a night with Mycroft in something that’s… ours.  Something permanent, at least bed-wise, though we’ll get Mycroft’s decadent mattress back at some point.  As it is, neither he nor I have ever slept in the other’s bed.  Everything was disastrous for so long that we never even had one good night where one of us had to sneak out without the neighbors seeing.”

      “Here, when you sneak out, I’m sure it becomes part of a secret file somewhere.”

      “It does.  Mycroft said entries and exits are monitored and I can understand that, him being who he is.”

      “It’s still a little unsettling.”

      “No, it’s a _lot_ unsettling, but I have to get used to things like that, I suppose.  I’m sure Mycroft will have me under greater surveillance than ever when I go back to work and there are going to be times I probably can’t even know who the people are who Mycroft’s got visiting in his study.  Just have to nod politely and keep quiet when I pass them by on the way to the loo.”

      “And if they get cheeky, you can’t threaten to take them in for a night in the cells because they’ve probably got diplomatic protection and Mycroft won’t even let you give them a solid knock in the head for being bastards.”

      “I think he would, actually.  Probably say it’s a punch or they have to deal with him in a sour mood and who wouldn’t take a busted nose over that?”

      “Good point.”

      “And… any idea when I might be _getting_ my new mattress so I can start on my life of living in the Twilight Zone?”

      “No, because I’m not the lorry driver.  But, if you’re anxious, I can get Sam and we can give you a go on the stairs.  Not to be negative, but even the fake American agrees that how well you do is going to determine when you can make your move.  It’s going to be a lot of exertion for you, dangerous as hellm and whoever is helping you up and down is going to have to be extremely careful you don’t take a bad step, get light-headed or weak… which is a distinct possibility if you’ve already had a busy day.”

      “Trying to talk me out of it?”

      “No, just reminding you that you can’t be devil-may-care about this.”

      “I’m not going to!  I may try to sneak a little extra beer or have something to eat I’m not supposed to, but I know that anything too daft is going to send me back to the beginning or worse.  When I think about walking up or down those stairs, don’t believe the image of me falling hasn’t crossed my mind.  It has.  A lot.  And it isn’t an image my brain likes one bit.  I see myself down at the bottom with a broken neck or my insides filling with blood and I have to take a few deep breaths to remind myself that it’s not happening now and I’m still very much alive.  I’m going to take things slowly and not try to manage the steps without someone to help me.  I’ve _been_ dead, John and I have no desire to be dead again quite so soon.”

John frowned slightly because it was very difficult both to hear his friend’s thoughts and because, with Greg’s eagerness to push forward with his recovery, it was difficult to know how tightly the DI would keep to his promises if the urge struck to test the level of his progress.  But, he had to trust that his patient wanted, as much as everyone, to move past the horror of his injury and regain his normal life.

      “Alright, but if I _do_ catch you at the bottom of the stairs, expect me give you a kick to the head before I even try to help you up.”

      “More than fair.  So… why don’t you go find Sam and see what he’s doing?”

      “Because I already know.  He’s arguing with Sherlock about methods of cultivating fungi.”

      “That could go on for days!”

      “But it’s keeping them both quiet and out of my hair, so I’m more than happy to let the battle rage on.”

      “Stairs!”

      “Since when are you five years old?”

      “I’ll have been laying here for five years by the time they’re finally ready to come up for a breath of air.”

      “You know that if I stop things now, both of them are going to make us pay for it and Sherlock _will_ stand in witness of your maiden voyage.”

      “Hey, it’ll be one more person to catch me if I plummet.”

      “Sherlock will be too busy taking notes on how a victim of a staircase murder naturally falls and lands.”

      “I think I got delusional there for a moment.”

      “It’ll be our little secret.”

__________

      “You are the most inane individual in existence.”

      “Is there a prize for that?”

      “My scorn.”

      “Yippee!”

Sherlock snorted loudly and tossed aside the pad of paper on which he had been taking notes on fungal species detected on outdoor-discovered corpses and methods to collect and cultivate the corpse-collected fungi specimens.  His brother was a profoundly-useless human, today’s discussion notwithstanding.

      “One day I’ll take you to a body farm, Babylock.  Get you a nice room at the local Motel 6 and you can have a relaxing vacation.”

Seeing the twinkle in his brother’s eye, Sherlock hated that his glee was not as completely hidden as he’d hoped, but Sherrinford was now committed, whether he had been serious or not, and the detective made a mental note to check his calendar for his first opportunity for travel.

      “Your transparent attempts at bribery shall not sway my opinion of you.  In no possible universe am I going to present you in a flattering light to Molly Hooper.”

      “Why not?  I’m amazing.”

      “In that you produce amazement, yes.  It amazes me constantly how completely odious and infantile you are.”

      “I think Molly would disagree with you.”

      “Molly Hooper, despite her tendency towards excessive cheeriness and cat fanaticism, is not entirely unintelligent and can easily see through your pathetic bluster.”

       “Won’t do a bro a solid… what a sad excuse for a man you are, Sherlock.  I’m not sure you’re going to be welcome in our clubhouse anymore.”

      “A den of knuckle-draggery and pestilence, I have no doubt.”

John listened at the door of Mycroft’s study and stifled his giggle at Sam and Sherlock’s perpetual insults.  For anyone else, Sherlock would have already turned a truly vitriolic tongue in their direction and left a flood of tears in his wake but maybe that was the difference.  No matter what Sherlock said, Sam could match it and that was probably, though very oddly, refreshing from the detective’s point of view.  However, there were more important matters to deal with than their wagging tongues.

      “Oh, look.  The Brothers Holmes.  Or just a pair of pillocks.  I’m not really sure which.”

      “Oh look.  A fake doctor.  Or just a smelly little pipsqueak with an extremely kickable ass.”

      “Sherlock – defend my honor.”

      “You become irritable when you feel your masculinity is being threatened and stepping in to trounce this fatuous bolus of aged skin would not provide me sufficient satisfaction to overcome the annoyance of suffering your tetchiness for the remainder of the day.”

John made a gesture that actually made Sherlock gasp and Sam cackle at his baby brother’s prim sensibilities.

      “Lovely.  Just for that you’re not invited to the Gregory Lestrade Official Emancipation Celebration.  I don’t want to see your face peeking into our party no matter how much revelry you might hear.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow, reminding John very much of the absent middle Holmes brother, and then let a knowing grin spread across his face.

      “Is it time for the festivities to begin, Johnny Boy?”

      “I believe it is. The guest of honor is getting antsy.”

      “That’s just the leftover itching powder I sprinkled in this boxers when I got bored.”

      “It’ll help him prance, at least.  So, ready to go?”

      “Wait!  I demand details on the nature of this ridiculous tomfoolery.”

With Sherlock well and truly caught on the hook, Sam slowly eased himself upwards from the sofa and started the shamble towards the door.

      “Since you can’t beat them out of me or John, due to your wet-noodle arms and fighting ability similar to that of Mario and Luigi if you dropped them in the middle of Call of Duty, you’ll have to hope we’ll let you tag along and play with us.  Plying us with gifts would go a long ways towards getting an invitation.

Sherlock glared at his brother, then rose from his seat, grabbed a bottle of good whisky and thrust it forward towards the taller man.

      “You are definitely a chip off the old block.  Come on, then, the more hands for this the better.”

Sam took the bottle, kissed it gently on the neck and cradled it as he walked away towards Greg’s room, leaving John to shake his head and grin at the man’s complete lack of Holmesness.

      “John…”

      “Greg needs to try the stairs before Sam and I can decide if he’s ready to sleep in Mycroft’s room and he wants to give it a go now.”

      “I see.  Will he… will an audience be appropriate for such a thing?”

Every day, John had to admit, his partner both infuriated and pleasantly-surprised him.  There was really never a dull moment.

      “In general, I’d say no, but we already talked about you being there, so he knows you’re likely going to be watching.  And he’s fine with that.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, then nodded slightly.

      “Good.  If he loses his footing and plummets down I shall witness an authentic representation of a stairs-based death and that data will undoubtedly be valuable at some point.”

Chuckling at his lover’s highly-predictable thinking, John made an ‘after-you’ gesture and followed Sherlock towards Lestrade’s soon-to-be ex-bedroom.  And, if the Detective Inspector _did_ stumble, John had no doubt that Sherlock would be the first to hurl himself in the man’s path to break his lethal fall…

__________

      “Yes!  I’m ready to show you bastards just what we Lestrade’s are made of!”

      “Sour beer, cheap take out and sexual frustration?”

      “Close, you rubbish old man, but add in a seductive grin and footballer’s legs.”

      “What a pretty picture you paint.  Skinny is a lucky man.  He’s got nowhere to go from you but up.”

Sam gave Greg a smirk and waved at Martin, who had popped in to borrow Greg’s laptop.

      “I am in no way related to you, Sherrinford.  None at all.  Or, maybe it’s just that I inherited your portion of manners and respect for others.”

      “You’re cute when you’re peevish, Martin.  And that one there doesn’t deserve any respect; at least, not until he’s climbed Mount Mycie.  And I actually mean that in a non-perverted way, which is very unusual for me, I admit.”

Martin scowled and waved off his cousin’s nonsense, wondering if his decision to stay here and avoid close-quarters with a fine-food-obsessed Douglas Richardson was really well thought-out.

      “What does that even mean?  Any of it?”

John gently shoved Sam aside and made his way towards Lestrade, stopping a moment to pat Martin sympathetically on the shoulder.

      “Sam’s excited since we get to test how well our magic fingers have worked on this layabout.  Since you’re here, you can have a front-pew seat for the great revelation.”

John grinned at Lestrade and, with Sam’s help, got their patient onto his feet in prelude to the short trip to the stairs, which, much to Lestrade’s loud complaints, would be accomplished in his wheelchair.

      “I can walk!”

      “Let’s try to make sure all of your energy is ready for your trek up Everest, shall we?  Stop whinging for a minute and save your breath, too, while you’re at it.”

Sherlock and Martin were struck with a sense of gladness that they didn’t subscribe to the notion of typical male interactions because it was all just nattering and turbulence to their ears.

      “Listen to John, sicko.  Yes, it’s a short walk, but you’re going to need everything you’ve got to have even a shot at doing this.  And making assholish noises isn’t going to help, you moron.  Shut up, sit down and practice clenching said asshole, because you’ll probably need to be very good at it in a few minutes.”

Sam gave an impressive pantomime of wrestling Greg into the wheelchair, but took great care that his patient was safely settled before barreling through Sherlock and Martin to get the show on the road.  Leading the parade to the stairs, Sam distracted the other men for a moment to let Lestrade take a long, hard look at what he was facing and mentally prepare himself for the challenge.  Something Lestrade was very thankful for, since sitting there, looking up, he couldn’t remember a set of stairs that looked so tall and steep in his life.

      “Alright, mate.  Think you’re ready?”

John smiled down at Lestrade in what, he hoped, was a comforting manner.  He didn’t need Sherlock’s deductive skills to see that his friend’s confidence was seriously beginning to waver.

      “Yeah.  It’s just a set of stairs.  Climbed them all my life.”

      “Let’s get you up, then, and see how it goes.  Remember this is just a trial run.  If it doesn’t go to plan, we’ll try again another time.”

But Lestrade’s mind wasn’t sharing that manner of thinking.  He _needed_ this to work.  His showing with Mycroft in his wheelchair was a massive disaster, as was his few minutes in the entertainment-room chair from hell.  He’d bawled like an infant for his first real bath in this house and he was not, absolutely _not_ , going to see this fail, also.

      “Not going to be a problem, John.  Time to get started.”

John nodded to Sam and the two helped Lestrade out of the wheelchair, Sherlock and Martin standing at the ready in case further hands were needed.  Once on his feet, the injured man took as deep a breath as he could and nodded for the games to begin.

      “One step at a time, Greg.  Just one step at a time.”

Which told Lestrade his nervousness was _screamingly_ loud since Sam rarely ever just called him Greg.  But the advice was sound, regardless, and one foot went on the bottom step, with the second slowly following.

      “That’s great, mate.  Just take it slowly and stop as often as you need to.  It’s not a race to the top.”

And John was being comforting.  He must look like a frightened rabbit… a rabbit who took a glacially-slow second step and noticed it was significantly more uncomfortable than the first.

      “I’m f…fine.”

John and Sam shared a look, as did Martin and Sherlock and all parties waited patiently for the third step, which came more slowly than the second.

      “As you ascend, the vertical component of your motion requires you to work against gravity, making it a more difficult task than purely horizontal motion.”

      “T…thank you, Sherlock.  Always happy to l… learn something new.”

      “You’re welcome.  But that is why you should not be discouraged by your uninspiring progress.”

Martin smacked Sherlock on the arm, which matched nicely with John’s annoyed glare, but Sam laughed and Lestrade actually broke a smile.  Sherlock had his own unique method of reassurance, but the older men couldn’t argue he wasn’t trying to be helpful.  Especially since the fourth step set Lestrade’s heart pumping harder and the pain in his chest rise to a very uncomfortable level.

      “Slowly, pal.  No rush here.”

      “T…trying to set a record.”

      “You already have.  You are the ugliest man in the world.  Now, take a little breather before we go any further.”

Which was exactly the wrong thing to say and Sam realized it milliseconds before Lestrade made a fairly Sherlockian snort and hauled his body up another step before stopping again.  Not because he wanted to stop, but because if he didn’t he was likely going to be dead, which would certainly ruin everyone’s day.  This was really starting to hurt and his heart was not drumming out a message of praise.

      “Greg, I don’t like the way this is going.  How about we try again in a couple of days?”

It was Lestrade’s turn to glare this time and he turned a fierce one on John.

      “No.”

      “Sam, will you please talk to him.”

      “The weather’s been nice for this time of year, Mr. Lestrade.  What might be your opinion on the subject of global warming?”

      “Tosser.”

      “Your opinion was _not_ solicited tiny Doctor Watson.  Ignore him, Gregster.  Soon as your carotid stops trying to pound its way out of your neck, you’re cleared for another step.”

This round of glares was between Sam and the three naysayers involved in this mission, but he was not about to pull the plug on things quite yet.  Soon, maybe, but not right this instant.  And Lestrade used that instant to leverage himself up another step, accompanied by sweat breaking out on his forehead.

      “Sam, this isn’t…”

      “Sherlock, you want to come up here and relieve your snuggle pants?  I think his negativity is hexing my patient’s exercise therapy.”

      “John would assault me.”

      “Yeah, that’s true.  Martin, get your shiny heiny up here.”

John opened his mouth to give Sam a very loud piece of his mind, but the older man quickly shook his head, then used his head to motion John down the stairs, his eyes sporting just enough ‘trust me’ in them for John to huff in frustration and wave Martin up to take his place supporting Lestrade.

      “Now, Martin, don’t cop a free feel while Greggy’s all vulnerable and unable to protect his naughty bits.”

      “Oh, aren’t you funny?  Wait, let me answer.  No, no you’re not.  If Arthur was here I’d tell him you threw a rock at a bird today, then sit back and watch the fun.”

      “You don’t mess around do you?  That moss on your head is already the color of a cayenne pepper, so it’s not surprising your soul is just as fiery.  Now I’m worried about this one’s naughty bits erupting in flames if you decide to see what Mycroft keeps making a fuss over.”

      “Despicable… you are utterly despicable.  I suspect the actual reason you left America was because you were deported for being a public nuisance.”

      “Public _and_ private.  I don’t discriminate.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s continued prattle, but John began to see why he’d been evicted.  Sam could send Martin down any avenue of conversation and their arguing would be non-medically related, keeping Greg from feeling he was under scrutiny and give their patient the time he needed to recover without it looking like he was being _given_ time to recover.  Sam was still a tosser, though.

      “Will you two s…shut it?”

      “You know we won’t, so why bother to ask?  Now, how about another step?”

Lestrade found enough breath for a rude noise and slowly, with a great deal of support, rose another step to find himself happier than he ever thought possible to be in other people’s hands.  Right now, he was starting to see spots and his legs felt as if they were moments from giving out.

      “That’s the look of a man who’s having a disappointing morning on the porcelain throne.”

      “B…bastard.”

      “Something we now know, unfortunately, is positively not true.  Martin, you don’t have any Ex-Lax in your pocket, do you?  You look like the kind of person who can be counted on to carry a hefty supply.”

      “I get quite enough fiber in my day, thank you very much.  I would expect, actually, that to be _your_ personal demon since a diet of cheap, horrid food and beer cannot be conducive to a healthy bowel.”

      “And here I was thinking Arthur was the doctor in the family.  How wrong I was.  So, how about a free procto exam, Martin old pal?  That’s pretty hard to do myself, so I’d welcome a helping hand.  Or helping finger, I should say.”

      “My genes are embarrassed to share any connection with yours, Sherrinford.  And John’s are embarrassed by-proxy.”

      “Feeling the love, Snotlock.  Why don’t you go take a nap or something?”

Lestrade wanted to laugh at the antics, but didn’t have the energy to spare.  Right now, he was the one wanting a nap, but, at least the pain wasn’t getting any worse.  Or maybe he just wasn’t able to notice at the moment.

      “A nap is not going to increase my affection for you, so why would you suggest it?”

      “Because I like the sound of my own voice.”

      “That much has been apparent since I first met you.”

      “One day soon, invalid, I won’t need to be here so often and you won’t have to listen to Sherlock’s attempts at stepping up a as a man of wit.  And, speaking of stepping up, how about another one?”

Sam gave the Detective Inspector a nudge and Greg surprised himself by following the direction and making another step towards his goal.

      “And… we’re done.”

All eyes turned to Sam, representing a mix of confusion and irritation.

      “W…what do you mean, d…done?”

      “Done.  Fini.  At the terminus.  The donkey has been properly fucked.”

      “N…no!”

      “Y…yes!  You’re about halfway up, and it’s the same distance back down.  When the new mattress gets here, you’ll end your little trip at the top and not have to come back down until morning.  So, you go halfway up today and then back down, which is roughly equivalent to a one-way trip.  Now we know that with some help and time, you can get up there and it’ll get easier as the days go by.  No need to press our luck today.  Martin, hold this guy steady while he turns around.”

Lestrade wanted to argue but since he actually understood the idiot’s reasoning and _hadn’t_ thought much about the coming-back-down part of this activity, decided discretion was the better part of valor.

      “Any ch…chance I can sleep up here t…tonight?”

Sam looked down at John who, since Greg hadn’t turned around yet, made as many ‘no’ signs as he could.

      “Maybe.  Let’s see when the mattress gets here and if Skinny is even going to make an appearance.  Don’t try to fool me and say that he’s not the reason you want to be up in the crow’s nest, so if he’s got a late night at the office ahead, I won’t even think about hauling you up these stairs.”

Lestrade gave a grudging nod and slowly turned, relying on the hands stabilizing him to prevent a highly unfortunate fall.  With another, less grudging, nod, the Detective Inspector took a very careful step down, suddenly remembering from his few times hiking in the hills that the way down had its own perils and it was almost easier to fall on the descent than on the way up.  Something John and Sherlock must have known because both shifted slightly to stand at the ready for any quick change in circumstances.

It was another slow, distressing, painful, heart-palpitating journey before Lestrade was returned to his wheelchair, but he could actually grin through the distress and it was a real grin, not something he was putting on for show.  He’d climbed stairs!  A good half of them and Sam was right… with enough time and someone to keep a grip on him, he could do this.  It might take a fortnight, but he could climb those stairs and sleep in a real bed.  With his fiancé.  Ok, this was not the time to get teary-eyed or he’d have John descending on him like a specter of doom.

      “That was a pointless use of my time.  There was not one useful bit of data to be gleaned from any of this tedious exercise.”

      “Sorry, Sh..Sherlock.  W…want to take my pulse?”

Sherlock quickly complied and walked alongside the wheelchair as John pushed it back to Lestrade’s for-now bedroom.  It was the work of some minutes to get the exhausted patient back into bed and John satisfied that there had been no ugly consequences of their little party.

      “Well, you’re not dying.”

Lestrade tried to raise his arms in victory at John’s proclamation, but broke his cool with a yelp of pain that earned him a quick cup of water and dose of pain medication.

      “You’re ridiculously stupid, but, as I said, you’re not dying.  How do _you_ feel about things?”

      “Good.  I feel g… good, John.  Just need to c… catch my breath.”

      “That part’s normal, at least.  You’re really our best measure of how well this went, Greg, so you need to be completely honest with Sam and me.  Is everything alright?”

      “Yes!”

      “He looks fine to me.”

Sam smiled widely and pointed at Martin who was doing his best to bear John’s disapproval for his comment, but really… it was like dealing with Arthur.  There were times it was easy to forget his fiancé was a fully-competent adult, what with his unbridled zest for life, but he _was_ and if he said something, you couldn’t treat him like a child and meet it with the idea he wasn’t able to actually tell you the truth or his opinion was meaningless.

      “Well, he does.  And, if you ask me, I’d say that Greg did very well with that and still had something left in him to make it the rest of the way up, if there’d been a bed to receive him so he didn’t have to lie on the floor to let his vitals settle back down.  Well done.”

Martin patted Greg’s leg and Greg found himself smiling proudly from the captain’s vote of confidence.  Any vote of confidence right now was something he was going to cling to tightly.

      “Thanks, Martin.  And I _am_ f…fine, John.”

John watched Sherlock surreptitiously check for signs that Lestrade was lying and, after failing to witness Sherlock calling out the overly-stressed man on his deceit, finally allowed himself to relax a little.

      “Alright.  I’ll take you at your word.  And the word of my expensive stethoscope and sphygmomanometer, so hold on a minute.”

After a few basic tests that added reassurance beyond that of his friend’s biased words, the doctor decided to pack away the last of his worry and offer his own congratulations for a job well done.

      “You’re _still_ not dying, so I would have to call the experiment a success.  Nice job, Greg.  Now, how about you get some rest and…”

      “Beer!”

      “That was not going be part of my sentence, no.”

      “You just had high-quality pain meds, invalid.  Isn’t that enough for you?”

      “N… nope.”

      “I like the way you think.  One bottle of the good stuff coming up.”

John sagged heavily and could only hope that Sam painted the limit line in a very bold color that his patient couldn’t mistake.  Though, when the taller doctor returned from the kitchen, the brand of lager he was carrying wasn’t their patient’s preferred choice.

      “Here, give this a try.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and took a sip, rolling it around in his mouth, then narrowed his eyes further before taking another, longer sip.

      “What is it?”

      “A low-alcohol brew.  Nice hand-crafted thing, too, so it costs a mint, but takes a whole six-pack to give you even an inkling of a hint of a buzz.  Doesn’t taste too bad, though, does it?”

From the way Lestrade tipped another bit into his mouth, Sam decided his patient wasn’t unhappy with his drink.

      “And look!  There’s enough here for everyone!”

Sam passed out the remaining bottles so all the participants could share in the enjoyment.  After his own first sip, John reluctantly had to admit that his patient was now allowed to have a full bottle of libation and that the libation in question should keep Lestrade sufficiently satisfied to not miss his standard brand too severely.  Especially since he could probably consume _several_ bottles and not have to worry about anything evil except the extra empty calories.

      “I picked up a little wine, too, so you and Skinny can have a glass in the evenings.  Leave it to me, bed-boy.  I’m absolutely committed to keeping your pathetic love life on track, alive and kicking.”

Lestrade did a very minute and careful shimmy and this time, even John had to laugh.  All in all, Greg had made a good show of it and a bit of additional pain and difficulty breathing was nothing compared to the encouragement that everyday things were coming closer to his reach.  For a dead man, several times over, the Detective Inspector was coming along very nicely.

      “Let me know what kind of lube you prefer and I’ll pick that up on my next shopping trip.”

As long as the most idiotic of the Holmes brothers could be kept on his leash…

__________

It was very rare that Douglas was tempted to commit a commoner’s act in public, but since they were riding in their chauffeured car, making it not exactly a public arena, he eased his normally unimpeachable standards of personal conduct and loosened the button on his trousers.  This had been, without question, one of the most satisfying days of his life.

      “I think I tried every bit of food in London.”

      “Oh, I feel confident there might be a few items being purveyed that may have escaped our scrutiny, but I agree that we cut a mighty swath through the city’s culinary world.”

      “It was all yummy, too.”

      “In that, you shall also find me in agreement.  Our pre-screening technique certainly awarded us a veritable cornucopia of delicacies that I shall forever remember fondly.”

      “And you’re certain its alright that we ate everyone’s food, even if we don’t hire them for the wedding?”

      “I am very certain, Arthur, so rest your brain on that particular score.  This is the way in which matters are handled and it is expected that not every actor to audition for a role actually receive the role in question, so to speak.”

      “Oh, are they going to perform at our wedding, too?  Brilliant!  Will there be juggling?”

Veering even slightly from literal expression was never a good idea with MJN’s gallant steward.

      “Seeing as how they will be handling the food, I must say that I sincerely hope not.”

      “Oh yes.  There _is_ that.  I imagine things would get a bit messy.”

      “I suspect they would.  Ah ha… our destination looms.”

Arthur beamed widely seeing Mycroft’s home up ahead and quickly began to gather the containers of food for Martin to sample.  Or for anyone who wanted to sample.  He’d gotten rather a lot of containers, but everyone they visited was happy to give him things to bring home and it would have been very impolite to refuse.

After thanking the driver and giving him several of the containers of food to take home, Arthur dashed towards the front door, Douglas bringing up the rear at a far more mature and sedate pace.  And, as expected, this kept the First Officer from having to worry about being burdened with plates and utensils to carry to the inevitable food-based party that had spontaneously erupted, as they were wont to do, when Arthur made his presence known to the rest of the household.

      “… and they were all Skip Brilliant!  Really, I have never seen so much lovely food in my entire life and my tongue thought it was as lovely as my eyes and nose did!  I think… I think I might have an idea of which is the loveliest, but I need to you have a taste, too, Skip so I can know if I’m right or not.  Douglas said I am and he would know because he’s absolutely brilliant for food sampling, but I’m not marrying him so I want your opinion, also.”

Arthur loaded a plate high with a selection of things from his containers and shoved the plate into Martin’s hands so he could begin filling plates for the rest of the family, who had little problem accepting free gourmet food, though Lestrade pouted that his plate was small and provided only with the milder options.

      “Oh!  Mr. Sherlock!  I especially want you to try this.”

Arthur put three egg rolls on Sherlock’s plate before he handed it over, with a look of extreme hope on his excited face.

      “Why?”

      “Because you like egg rolls.  I asked everyone if they made them and most said it wasn’t really their specialty, but one said they’d try and the cook made these and they’re brilliant!  Well, _I_ think they’re brilliant, at least.  So what do you think?”

Sherlock sniffed at food items in question and tentatively took a bite.

      “It is not appalling.”

      “Yes!  And they’re healthy, too, or as healthy as an egg roll can be, so Greg can even have one.  Or a half of one.  Or a teeny bite if Doctor Watson thinks it’s not as brilliant idea as I do.”

      “By the time your wedding arrives, Arthur, I won’t mind if Greg gets a whole one to himself.  And a piece of cake.  Of course, how he’s going to keep his trim figure with all of that won’t be my problem.”

      “Dancing, Doctor Watson!  We’re going to dance so much, he’s going to need lots and lots of energy.”

      “Once again, Arthur astounds us with his encyclopedic knowledge of science.  Behold, Dupin is nearly weeping with pride.  Which is why I’m going off to make good use of my enormous tub and endless supply of hot water before the salty deluge begins.  Fare thee well…”

Douglas made his escape before Arthur could drag him back in and moved as quickly as possible towards his luxurious bath and a good book in his as-luxurious bed.  They had to leave London in an unfortunately brief amount of time and he had every intention of indulging in as many of the benefits of Chez Holmes as was humanly possible.  Hence his personal requests for Arthur’s grocery delivery for tomorrow.  What a thoughtful goodbye present Mr. Holmes was giving him for all of his valuable assistance corralling the younger generation…

While Douglas beat his hasty retreat, the remainder of the household got comfortable with their plates, Lestrade happily demanding the day’s second beer and that was how Mycroft found the residents when he returned home several minutes later.

      “Should I immediately acquire headache tablets or is there, my dear, a non-painful explanation for your vigorous quaffing?”

      “Beerless beer!”

Mycroft’s quizzical look was rewarded by Martin prying the bottle out of Lestrade’s hands and handing it to his cousin for inspection.

      “Ah.  I see.  And is your beverage to your liking?”

Mycroft passed back the bottle to Lestrade’s very-grabby hands and marveled at the spark of glee in his lover’s eyes.

      “It certainly is.  Yes, it’s missing that bite and buzz from the alcohol, but the flavor is still in there and it’s high-end, too.  Makes me feel terribly posh with every sip.”

The bureaucrat had no doubt who was the culprit behind this rebellion, but it was the epitome of passive resistance, so no overt or covert chastisement would ensue.  Lessons had been learned and would not soon be forgotten…

      “And look!  Look at all the food!  Douglas and I had a brilliant day trying everything in London you can eat, except some of the sweets Skip and I found, but I already know how good those are, so I didn’t need to try them again and I’m not certain I would have had room in my stomach for much more anyway.  Thanks for helping us get appointments, Mycroft.  Everything went perfectly.”

Perhaps, someday, Mycroft would become used to such openly-expressed and honest gratitude, but today was certainly not the day.

      “You are quite welcome, Arthur.  I am happy to be of service.  And was your mission a successful one?”

      “I think so… though, Skip hasn’t actually said one way or the other.”

Arthur cut hesitant eyes towards Martin who hadn’t made it through a quarter of what Arthur had heaped on his plate and felt rather incapable of having an informed opinion on the issue.  But, ultimately, that really wasn’t necessary…

      “That’s because my mouth’s been full, love.  Never saw me stop eating for a moment, did you?”

      “No, now that you mention it, I did not.”

      “There you have it.  And, I would have to say that everything I’ve tried has been very good and most appropriate for a wedding.  What of this are you thinking about serving?”

      “All of it!”

Every pair of eyes in the room took a moment to assess the size of the word ‘all’ and the associated pairs of hands somewhat wanted to applaud Arthur’s scale of intent.

      “All, Arthur?”

      “All, Skip!  Douglas had a little chat with the cooks and explained that you and I are going to have the most brilliant wedding in the world… WEDDING!... and that we were inviting lots of different people, so we wanted lots and lots and lots of different things to serve to give everyone things they like, such as Mr. Sherlock’s egg rolls, and always be sure they had nibbles while they were dancing and chatting and singing.  That’s alright, isn’t it, Mycroft?  I mean, maybe it’s not proper or something, but…”

      “Arthur… whatever you would like is perfectly proper for your own wedding.  Once you provide me with the name of your final choice, I shall ensure that they have all of your selected items available fresh and at the perfect serving temperature for the entirety of the event.”

      “BRILLIANT!”  Thanks again, Mycroft.  Oh, this is going to be the best wedding I’ve ever had.”

Mycroft’s soft smile was as telling as a well-lit neon sign in Lestrade’s opinion and gave his own thanks, not for the first or last time, that his lover had found someone like Arthur to fill that paternal part of his soul.

      “My pleasure, dear boy.  Now, may I have a preview of what I might expect to enjoy on your very special day?”

      “Yes!  I’ll get a plate ready for you.”

Arthur started picking the choicest examples of the remaining specimens as Mycroft took a seat next to Lestrade, stopping a moment before he sat down to give his fiancé a kiss.

      “And your day, my dear?  Were there any additional bright spots besides your happy liquid discovery?”

      “I would say so, yes.  I did the stairs.”

Mycroft immediately cut eyes towards John and Sam, who were sitting close together and pointedly ignoring the middle Holmes’s frown.

      “I see.  And how did you fare?”

      “I’m still here, aren’t I?  It wasn’t easy, I won’t lie about that, but I did it, with enough help.  And John gave me a thorough check afterward and pronounced me officially not dead.”

That last bit added in to help soothe Mycroft’s visible uncertainty about the whole business, even though he was well aware it was coming.

      “It was not too stressful for you was it, Gregory?  There is absolutely no need to rush, you know.”

      “I know, love, and I promise you that if you’re willing to be patient with me crawling like a snail up the stairs, you won’t have to worry about anything going wrong.”

Mycroft was still not entirely happy with the turn of events occurring at such a rapid pace, but if John’s blessing had been given, then he would not question it.  Until he got the doctor alone for a private conversation, that is.

      “And the mattress is here!  That’s all the criteria satisfied you pitiful excuse for a medical man.  So what do you say, Sam?”

Mycroft’s eyes turned towards his brother, who set down his current bite of deliciousness and made a very grand show of thinking about a response.

      “I say that if Skinny is comfortable with the idea, then we’ll get you upstairs tonight and into that new bed.  If he’d rather wait until tomorrow, so he can have the talk with John he’s planning and get mentally ready for seeing you struggle up Kilimanjaro, then you need to be ok with that and wait another day.”

That particular bit of consideration took Mycroft completely off-guard and it was a few moments before he realized the eyes in the room were now on him and waiting for his input.

      “As Sherrinford noted, I would like to conference further on the issue to understand more fully what impact this might have on your well-being, but… barring a negative report, I fail to see a reason you cannot begin this new phase of your recovery tonight.”

Another tiny, gentle shimmy and Lestrade was hoisting his beer for another sip.  Good food, good beer, and a night in a real bed.  Which was in Mycroft’s bedroom.  Which he had never seen.  Oh… this was truly a momentous day…

      “Now it’s my turn to say Brilliant!  You do whatever conferencing you want and I’ll lie here enjoying this feast and, if I remember correctly, a match that start not too long ago.  But I have no doubt I will be seeing the inside of your bedroom Mr. Holmes and I am certainly looking forward to it.”

And, suddenly, Mycroft was, as well.  He had handily forgotten how little familiarity his fiancé had with the home they would forever share and, now, the importance of his medical discussion was rapidly dwindling.  Dear Gregory certainly deserved his little treat…

__________

If dear Gregory was already wide-eyed at the mere sight of the stairs, how in the good lord’s name did he expect to scale it to the peak!  Fortunately, Martin had escorted Arthur off for a nighttime stroll so he wouldn’t have to suffer watching Lestrade’s ordeal.

      “My dear…”

      “It’s ok, Mycroft.  Really.  Like I said, it isn’t easy and I already know you’re going to want to drag me back down after the third step, but I can do this.  I _can_ and I want to.”

Mycroft looked to John and, after a moment to Sam, for a final confirmation, then gave his partner a nod and what he could of a smile.

      “I have full faith, my dear.  Now, shall we?  You did say you were fatigued and I do not want that condition to further itself and render this adventure impossible.”

      “Yeah, you’re right.  No time like the present.  Give me a hand?”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to look wide-eyed and panicky, but, surprisingly, Sherlock stepped forward and gave his brother an impatient look that set Mycroft in motion.  Carefully helping the eager, but nervous, man out of his wheelchair, the Holmes brothers, under John and Sam’s watchful gaze set about supporting Lestrade as he very, very slowly made his way up the first few steps, pinching his fiancé when Mycroft dared to suggest installing a lift or other assistive technology in the house.  At the halfway point, Lestrade was feeling every bit as pained, winded and wobbly as before, but now he still had more steps to climb and that was making his nervousness turn to fear, something Mycroft saw very clearly in his eyes.

      “We can stop, Gregory.  This is not a necessity, you know.”

      “If Mycroft did not already spend his nights defiling your hospital bed, I would, perhaps, understand your urgency, but since that piece of furniture has been well and truly desecrated, there is no imperative to accomplish this tonight.”

      “I c…can do this.  Just give m… me a minute.”

Mycroft and Sherlock shared a look, then another with the two men a few steps down, but Sam’s ‘don’t you dare pull the plug on this’ glare was unmistakable.  Keeping his thoughts to himself for the moment, Mycroft gave Lestrade his minute and then a second one before the next step was conquered and the progress began again.

After what seemed like a terrifying, soul-crushing eternity, Lestrade’s foot landed upon the floor of the next story and the relief and excitement that raced through him did a good job erasing the black thoughts that had started to fill his mind.

      “Are you alright, Gregory?”

      “Very al… alright.  P… proud of me?”

      “Inordinately proud, my love.  This was a herculean challenge and you were truly its master.”

Mycroft kissed Lestrade lightly on the cheek and took in every bit of his lover’s physical distress.  And every bit of his mental jubilation.

      “Are we going to continue on, or are you planning to fornicate here on the landing?”

John flicked Sherlock’s ear, as he moved past him to make his own check of Lestrade’s condition, then nodded Sam over for his own examination.  Which earned Lestrade a second kiss on his cheek, much to Mycroft’s extreme indignation.

      “Looking good, sweet thing.  Now, how about we get you horizontal so Mycroft can take advantage of those good looks?”

Lestrade nodded rather than answering to save what remained of his breath and concentrated on ignoring the pain as Mycroft and Sherlock continued to help him forward until they finally passed through Mycroft’s bedroom door, where Lestrade was carefully installed in the bed, with an assortment of firm pillows to prop him up for the time being.

      “My dear?”

      “Good.  I’m g… good.”

And, for all of the signs that his partner was in pain and suffering significantly, Mycroft knew that Lestrade actually meant what he said.  Some things simply weren’t important at the moment.

      “We are most happy to hear that.  May I get you anything to improve your comfort?”

      “A glass of w…water?”

      “Of course.  One moment.”

Mycroft felt his own pain tearing himself away from Lestrade’s side, but his lover would not appreciate the mothering about which John had duly warned him.

      “Want anyone to hang around, sicky, or will you be fine with Skinny?”

Lestrade pointed at the door and grinned brightly, ignoring Sherlock’s rolled eyes and John’s slight look of unease.

      “Are you sure, mate?  We can chat about the wedding plans for a little while and be here… well, just in case we _need_ to be here.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and began to draw him towards the door.  His partner was a caring, concerned man and that was very much to his credit, but there was certainly going to be lustful glances beginning soon and that would likely bring blindness to any who remained behind to witness it.

      “And it looks like I’m the next to leave.  At least as soon as… Skinny!  There you are!  Just telling Gregster here that I’ll probably be awake most of the night, so if you two can’t think of any way to pass the time, gimme a yell and I’ll pass along a few ideas.”

Sam’s filthy wink made Mycroft shudder with disgust, but Lestrade giggle happily and in another heart beat the two were alone in the room.  Mycroft handed Lestrade his water and kept a light hold on the glass as the DI took a hearty drink.

      “And here you are, Gregory.  Where you have deserved to be for so very long.  Starting tomorrow, we shall work to make the space a fully-shared one.  For now, is there anything you need for your comfort?”

      “You.”

Lestrade patted the bed, then mimed a very wicked striptease that Mycroft was pleased to accommodate.  For both of them.

      “You are the sexiest m… man in the world.”

No, Mycroft was certain that was not the case, for that honorific belonged to the man laid out in front of him.  A few moments work were all that was necessary to divest Lestrade of his clothing then, sliding into the bed, next to his lover, the middle Holmes drew up the thick, soft bed coverings and wrapped himself carefully around the warmest, most beautiful body in existence.

      “And you are the strongest, most formidable man I have ever known.  How spectacular you were tonight, Gregory.  I was exceedingly impressed by your determination and will.”

      “And my sweat and sw… swearing.”

      “Those were also impressive.”

Lestrade smiled and focused on the feel of his and Mycroft’s naked bodies pressed together, as they shared their first moments together in what was now _their_ bedroom.  Where there was less likelihood of being unexpectedly disturbed and where they could indulge this way as often as they liked.  Such as all night long tonight…

      “Not as impressive as th… this.”

Mycroft smirked as his fiancé’s exhausted leg used its last bit of energy to rub against a very interested piece of his anatomy and he was happy to give Lestrade a prolonged, gentle kiss for his enthusiasm.

      “You are a flatterer, my dearest, and I am eternally grateful for the fact.  However, I doubt that either you or I have the stamina for any intimate encounter at this point.”

      “Morning?”

Starting his day by sharing his body with the glorious specimen currently stroking his skin with a warm and tender touch?  What could possibly be better?”

      “I believe that can be arranged.  For now, let us allow your body to regain its footing after the experience it has endured.  Are you ready for sleep?”

      “Not really.  Will you t…talk to me?”

      “Without question.  Any particular topic?”

      “Tell me a s… story.  An exciting one.”

      “Very well.  I believe I have a few that might suit your needs.”

A few, at least, that were not highly classified.  But, the ones he could share would be a delight to tell to someone who was both interested and content to lie quietly and listen.  Much as they might do in future times when the need to talk was not for amusement, but to help ease the troubles of both their lives.  To lie here, feeling the warmth of his fiancé’s… husband’s… body and breathing in his spicy, masculine scent… baring his soul to the core would be a simple and highly comforting thing.  And for those times, the leg against which his still-interested parts were pressing, would certainly be conscripted into its intended use…


	21. Chapter 21

      “Please, Arthur… just one little smile?”

      “I’m trying, Skip, but I can’t.  It’s like there are little men, who could be clowns, holding on to my lips and squishing them down so I can’t lift them no matter how hard I try.”

Martin chose not to inquire about the clowns and pulled his fiancé closer in their bed for what comfort he could give.  He’d watched Arthur become more and more anxious the past day or so and, with today marking their departure from London, it wasn’t a surprise that his jolly Arthur was having a hard time finding his big, bright smile.

      “I understand, love, but you don’t want the others to see you sad, do you?”

      “No!  No, I don’t want that at all.  I suspect that they’ll be sad enough that we’re going home and I really don’t want to add any more to it.  Especially since Greg’s having such a hard time right now.”

      “Greg’s fine, Arthur.”

      “He nearly fell down the stairs!  I was there and I saw him miss the step and if Mycroft and Doctor Sam hadn’t been there, he would have fallen and…”

This time, Martin rolled so he could take Arthur in a big hug, which lasted until the steward had lost some of his unease.  That had been a very bad moment and he wished beyond wishing that Arthur hadn’t seen it.  If Mycroft and Sam hadn’t had firm grips on him, Greg would have careened down the stairs and, as it was… Arthur hearing that much pain expressed in a shout was as bad as seeing what happened.

      “And that’s why Sam and Mycroft are here.  John and Sherlock, too.  And remember how both John and Sam said Greg was alright and hadn’t done anything to cause any damage?  It hurt, but he didn’t undo any of his recovery and he went back upstairs that night, right?  And came down again in the morning.  Just a little accident that didn’t cause any problems, at all.”

      “But Skip… you know how upset he was afterwards…”

Greg in a very black mood was another thing Arthur should never have to see… it wasn’t until the evening that the DI found a smile and it wasn’t nearly his most brilliant one.

      “But, he’s better now, isn’t he?  Just needed a good night’s sleep and he was back to his old self.  John and Sam told you that his bad mood was completely normal and nothing to worry about, so try not to, if you can.  They wouldn’t lie to you about something like that.”

Arthur lifted his head a little and peeked at Martin, who was giving his fiancé the most comforting smile in his admittedly-small arsenal.

      “That’s true, I suppose.  I just feel like I’m not doing enough to help.”

      “Arthur… you have done more to help than I can possibly imagine.  You have been a phenomenal help and now, it’s time to let the others take over for awhile.  Also, don’t forget, that while we’re here, Mycroft’s attention is divided in a lot of directions.  When we’re gone he can focus more of it on Greg.  If you think about it, they really haven’t had that much time alone as a couple and I would wager that, when he can, Mycroft will keep the number of people in the house as small as possible, so he can focus on actually having a relationship and not just working to keep Greg safe and well.  And you’re going to be able to talk to Greg every day, so you’re not leaving him behind.  You’ve got your magic mobile and all of the communication equipment in your little house.  If there’s any trouble, they can get in contact with _you_ at a moment’s notice, too.”

      “There _is_ that.  I just… it’s hard, Skip.”

      “I know and I agree with you.  I love flying, you _know_ how much I love to be in the air, but I’m going to miss this.  It’s what… well, it’s what I’ve always supposed was normal for other people.  Things to do and people to do them with.  Not having to sit home alone at night because the people you knew had plans already that didn’t involve you or you didn’t have any spare money to go out for an evening, anyway.  Here… well, we’ve had a bustling social life, haven’t we?  I won’t deny that I’ll miss that, even though it’s a social life with the most ridiculous people in history.”

      “That’s why they’re so much fun!  We’ve had lots of laughs and a simply brilliant time with everybody, because no matter how important they are, they still love laughs and fun.  When we’re home, I suppose, and in our own little house, we can get out and about more to find other people who love laughs and fun, but… that might take some time.  Maybe it’s a good thing Greg won’t be doing his work for awhile, so I know there will always be someone to laugh and have fun with if I get a tad droopy and need a little phone call to London for a bit of a cheer up.”

      “And Greg will be happy for it, too, I have no doubt.  See?  It’s not going to be as bad as you believe.   I suspect, as well, that any time you want a quick trip back to London, say when we’re flying and Carolyn decides she’s going to handle the passengers alone, Mycroft will be happy to send a helicopter for you so you can spend some time in the city.  And _we’ll_ visit whenever you want, I promise you.  Douglas will probably want to come with us sometimes, also, so he and Sam can continue to embarrass themselves with every woman in London.”

      “They _are_ rather popular in London, I have to admit, which is nice because I think, really, Douglas gets a bit lonely now and then, and so does Doctor Sam.  Together they’ve been finding lots of nice ladies to talk to and having their own laughs and fun.”

      “More evidence that our adventures in London aren’t over.  So, don’t feel sad, love.  Besides, we have a lot to do today, what with moving your things into the house and setting it up just the way we want it.  Might as well be comfortable while we’re there, right?  And get some ideas for what we want for our own flat when we find one.”

      “Hurray!  It’s going to be brilliant living in our little house.  OH!  OH OH!  OH OH OH!  We’re going to sleep there tonight aren’t we?  We can cuddle by the fire and sleep together and have breakfast together…”

      “That we can.  And when this job is over we’ll be back there doing it all over again.  Of course, we still haven’t had the conversation with Carolyn about all of this.”

      “Yes… I admit I’ve been asking that thought to go and hide for a bit every time it’s popped up in my brain because I’d rather not think about it when I’m having fun and we’ve been having so much fun that there’s never really been a time that was right to sit and tell it to come out so I could have a good think about it.  But yeah, we’ll have to talk to mum today.  Do you… she won’t be mad, will she?”

      “Arthur, I quit predicting how your mother will react to anything a long time ago.  She knows we’re getting married and that it’s soon, so I don’t expect she believes we haven’t given this sort of thing some consideration.  I just… if there was anything I would say she might object to, and object isn’t really the right word, it’s that… well, she’ll be alone at home now, won’t she?  You’d know better than I would if that is something that might upset her or not.”

      “AAHHH!!!  I hadn’t thought of that!  Why didn’t I think of that?  Oh, that’s not a good thing, is it?  I was so happy that we were going to have our little house and be pretend-husbands before we were real husbands that I didn’t think that Mum was going to be alone in the house without anyone to watch telly with or have dinner with… I think my stomach is starting to hurt.”

Martin pulled Arthur even tighter to him and made the best ‘there, there’ sounds that he could.

      “Don’t forget that Carolyn isn’t exactly alone, love.  I’m certain she’ll simply spend more time with Herc and the other witches of her coven, I mean… her friends.  It might be that some of the time she normally spends at home with you is because she doesn’t want _you_ to be lonely.  We won’t know until we talk to her, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to worry now since you don’t have the facts and I know how important facts are to you, now that you’re a part-time detective’s assistant.”

      “That _is_ true… and Mum didn’t complain about having to stay at Herc’s when we had our party, or about going on holiday with him when we brought Greg back to London.”

      “I won’t give you a guarantee, but I suspect she won’t be too upset about our beginning our lives together a little early.  She may be surprised, but I don’t imagine her being overly upset.  It might help, though, if we stop and buy some flowers on the way to your house.”

      “Brilliant!  Mum loves flowers.  And I did get her a lot of presents while we’ve been here, so that should wipe away any frowns that try to turn her smile upside down.  Not that Mum really smiles very much, but they won’t even think about flip-flopping into frowns when we give her all of her lovely gifts.”

      “I’m sure you’re right.  Now, you do know we have to get out of bed today, right?  By the time we finish packing everything and loading the car, in addition to saying our goodbyes, it’s not going to be an early start, in any case.  We really don’t want to make it later because we still have a lot to do once we’re back in Fitton.”

      “True… but it’s so nice and warm and cozy in bed.”

      “And we’ll be nice and warm and cozy tonight in our own bed.  We have to actually get there and get settled, though, for that to happen.”

Martin wriggled away from his fiancé and stood next to the side of the bed.

      “I did it, love.  Now, it’s your turn.”

Arthur pouted slightly, but finally rolled slowly to dangle one leg off the side of the bed and then, with a very dramatic show of effort, used the leg to help push him up the rest of the way onto his feet.

      “I am officially out of bed.”

      “Is showering, teeth-brushing and dressing going to be as much of a battle.”

      “I suspect it might be, yes.”

      “It’s a lucky thing I had a large dinner last night so I have the energy to fight it.”

      “Thanks, Skip!  I do like to make certain everyone has enough energy to handle whatever surprises jump in front of them.”

      “Like a steward who doesn’t want to get out of bed?”

      “That _is_ one example.”

Martin laughed at the very innocent voice Arthur used for his answer and moved around the bed to push his fiancé towards the shower.  Keeping Arthur in motion was going to be a priority today.  The busier he was, the less chance for the leaving-London sadness to take root and a sad Arthur was something _he_ was certainly anxious to avoid.

__________

      “Playin’ hooky?”

Mycroft had hoped for a quiet moment to make his tea so, of course, the house’s poltergeist saw fit to make an appearance.

      “I have several meetings in the afternoon and have already held a number of phone conferences for matters of morning business, so I believe the answer to your barely-literate question, Sherrinford, is no.”

      “Nerd.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Probably never cut a class or dodged a meeting a day in your life.  You are a great big super-dooper party-pooper nerd.”

      “Au contraire.”

      “Do tell.”

      “When Mummy and Father were coincidentally away from home… it was not unknown for me to make more effective use of my time and spend the day reading, especially when Sherlock was of an age that he was confined to his school building for the morning and afternoon.”

Sam held up his hand and had to gesture a few times for Mycroft to get the idea and cautiously slap his brother’s upraised palm.

      “I am so proud of you right now, Mycie.  Really, having to hold back the tears.”

      “However, unlike you, upon matriculation, my few absences in no manner marred my exemplary attendance record.”

      “Hey, do you know how hard it is to sit through first-period Latin when you’re hung over?  Listening to those tapes of people trying to pretend they knew what a Latin accent sounded like?  It was like being in the alien mothership with little green men trying to beam English messages into your head when they’d only learned the language from some Harlequin romances that they transported out of a used bookstore on a low-to-ground fly-by.  Sheer fucking agony…”

      “Since your impaired condition was entirely by your choice, I have for you an utter lack of sympathy.”

      “Yeah, that’s fair.  I did keep my grades up, though.  Nobody could say I didn’t pull the A’s out of my ass like flying monkeys.”

      “You realize that your statement was not only vulgar, but utterly nonsensical, do you not?”

      “No.”

      “I believe my cup of tea shall be entirely insufficient to brace me for the experience of remaining in your presence, so I shall remove it and myself to my study.”

      “Ok, I’ll come, too.”

      “That would rather defeat the purpose of my leaving your vicinity, now wouldn’t it?”

      “I guess, but I’m bored so I win.”

      “There was no contest to merit your participation.”

      “Life’s a contest.  And I win.  What are we going to do in your study?  Study things?  That was a joke, by the way, in case you couldn’t tell.”

      “I have several matters on which to focus my attention and none of them will benefit from your attendance or input.  Now, if you will excuse me…”

Mycroft left the kitchen, then stopped and sighed, realizing his brother was walking behind him, separated by no more than six inches and matching his gait point for point.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Annoying you.”

      “I am in hell.”

      “Nope, you’re not having enough fun for that.  But, I’m working on it.”

      “A swarm of locusts is a more welcome plague than you.”

      “Look at you going all biblical on me.  Right between the eyes with a fistful of Exodus.  Now, come on.  Let’s go study.”

      “Sherrinford… I believe your time is better spent seeing to Gregory’s care.”

      “Nope.  Spongelock is keeping Sicko busy with a stupid murder case he caught wind of, so I’ve got nothing to do.  Except you.”

      “John would surely welcome the opportunity to conference about Gregory’s treatment and recovery.”

      “Lazy shit is taking a nap, trying to sleep off getting a good boning by the Baby.  We’re lucky John’s not a woman because the rate at which they go at it would mean we’d be hip deep in squalling infants by Arbor Day.  It’s bad enough I have to hear him whine constantly about how little sleep he’s getting because of their shenanigans, miserable show off, now I have to take up his slack, too.”

      “Arthur would be delighted…”

      “Emergency run to get the ceramic pot he made and forgot to pick up.”

      “With Martin?”

      “Martin said he wasn’t going to be left alone in this house of horrors for love or money.”

      “Then, your new acquaintance…”

      “Dougie went with them because Arthur still has your bank card and he’s easy to confuse during a spontaneous, whirlwind shopping spree.”

      “Dear Mr. Richardson, always one to capitalize on an opportunity.”

      “You get what you grab.  Come here.”

      “You will keep your hands in plain sight and away from my person.”

      “Not even a little fondle?”

      “I will dismember you.”

      “Let me help you with your homework, then.”

      “Go and read a book.  If you are unfamiliar with the item in question, I shall provide you with a reference diagram.”

      “I’M BORED!”

      “You have a well-appointed residence of your own.  Make your way there, take yourself in your hand and find amusement in the action.”

      “Was that lewd and crude?  I feel the tears coming again.  You’re a chip off the old block.”

      “Go home, Sherrinford.”

      “Home’s boring.  I want to stay here where the fun is.”

      “You stated not a moment ago that _here_ is where you are bored.”

      “I can’t remember that far back.”

      “I shall pay you.  Name the amount and I will gift it to you in any currency or equivalent you desire.”

      “Gold-pressed latinum.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I was wrong.  You’re no nerd.  Give me back your membership card.”

Mycroft had the clear sense his tea was laughing at his plight and if it were not so direly needed, he would relocate it from cup to drain as a well-deserved chastisement.  Perhaps, for this one occasion, the quickest path to serenity was concession.  

      “Very well.  You may accompany me to the study; however, I do have work that requires my attention and will not play with you any games or join you in dance or song.”

      “That’s harsh.”

      “But the terminal limit of my negotiations.”

      “I’ll sing by myself, then.”

      “No.”

      “Come on!  I’ve got the whole fucking Journey catalog in my noggin’ and I haven’t belted out a tune in forever!”

      “The firearm under Gregory’s recovery bed is by no means the only such device in the house.”

      “Oh, I know.  I found a good baker’s dozen before I lost interest in looking.  You suck at hiding things.  I took a few souvenirs for my trouble, though, so you might want to do an inventory and top up your stock.  You probably _like_ taking inventory, so consider it a little present from me to you.”

Same waved and walked towards the study, a comment about hoping the bar was open, lingering in the air as he strode away.  Mycroft breathed in the non-Sherrinford scented air and sipped his cooling tea, savoring the sudden eruption of peace and quiet.  One day, he would take the time to investigate the reinstitution of beheadings and mount his loutish brother’s so-called noggin’ on a spike until the animals stripped it of flesh and it could be polished into a paperweight to sit on his desk.  With, of course, one large gag symbolically wrapped around the now-lipless mouth…

__________

      “Mycroft!  Doctor Sam!  I wondered where my pick up sticks had gotten off to.”

Though, Arthur thought, they usually made people smile and not grit their teeth like angry monkeys about to launch an attack on a banana thief.

      “Oh no… Arthur, back away slowly.  Mycroft does _not_ take well to losing…”

Or didn’t when he was young…  Martin had some very clear memories of the rare flashes of a young Mycroft’s temper and it was always because he was losing in a competition of some form, though they had never been as completely without point and lacking in mental combat as Arthur’s colorful sticks.  Sam must have made a wager a demon would think twice about refusing…

      “Balderdash.  Do not listen to him, Arthur.  I am ever the soul of sportsmanship and good grace in the matter of games.”

      “You fucking tried to bite me!”

      “ _You_ attempted a dishonorable action.”

      “I did _not_ hit your hand on purpose.”

      “Your ‘my badsie wadsie’ tells a different tale.”

      “I believe we can agree that Sherrinford is an insufferable and incompetent cheat and the stork becomes somewhat feral in combat situations, regardless of the age group for which it is recommended.”

      “Thanks, Dougie.  You’re a real pal.”

      “Anything to help.  Besides, if either of you succumb to some form of stick-based fatality, Arthur will certainly delay the wedding and I will be forced to postpone my much-anticipated dining experience and ‘inspection’ of the gifts.”

      “You are a gluttonous and larcenous man, Douglas Richardson.  Which is why we get along so well.”

      “And why I shall keep a strict accounting of all wedding gifts bestowed to the happy couple and enact a severe penalty should I find any discrepancies.”

      “Accounting, inventorying… you must be a fireball in bed, Skinny.”

      “That is none of your business.  But… yes.  And, with this little matter concluded, I believe you owe me every original photograph you possess of… the event.”

      “Why are you being such a baby about that?”

      “We agreed, Sherrinford, and I am the victor in your rather feeble challenge.”

      “Oh, this sounds interesting!  What are we talking about?

      “Well, Party Artie…”

      “You will NOT divulge any specifics, Sherrinford Holmes.  That was also part of our agreement.”

      “Sorry, kid.  Mycroft’s got me gagged, but I can’t say I completely dislike the feeling.  If he grabs Greg’s handcuffs, though, you might want to find something else to do for a half-hour or so.”

      “I think I’m a bit confused.”

      “And we are much the happier for it.  Really, Sherry, you do realize Martin and I have to escort young Arthur back to Fitton today and shepherding a sobbing mass of disillusioned goo isn’t the way I want my day to proceed.”

      “Besides, your vulgarity is peeling my tasteful wallpaper.”

      “The love is thick as shit in here.  And smells about as bad.  I need a drink.”

      “Doctor Sam… I believe it is a tiny bit early for a little drink and, anyway, if you play another game of pick up sticks with Mycroft, you don’t want to be drunk and lose again, do you?”

Martin beamed with pride at his fiancé.  Arthur was learning very quickly just what switches to flip to turn the beastly non-American completely and blessedly off.

      “Well, I know when I’m licked.  Though it usually feels a LOT better than this.  So, what do you folks need to do to finish packing up?  As long as it doesn’t actually involve doing anything, I’m more than willing to help.”

      “Thanks, Doctor Sam!  I think we have everything ready, though.  We even did a little extra shopping so we have more things to bring home us.  I just wish… I just wish going home didn’t mean _going_ home, if that makes any sense.”

      “Your meaning is as clear as the finest crystal, dear boy.  And reciprocated fully by everyone you shall leave behind.  However, a lovely consequence of the Information Age is that continued communication is assured, so you shall never be without an outlet to share with us the interesting portions of your day.”

      “Skip said that, too, Mycroft, and I know it’s true, I really do.  It’s just going to be hard to get used to, which is odd since I’ve only known you since Mr. Sherlock came to Fitton that very first time to help find Skip, but it feels like we’ve been friends, family, really, for… well, forever.”

      “I heartily agree.  And it is one of the greatest joys of my life that we shall continue our familial connection long into the future.  Have you decided when you will depart?”

Sam was glad his little brother was highly skilled at hiding his emotions because, right now, Mycroft was screaming his own wish that Arthur and Martin up and move to London so that family dinners could be an almost-nightly thing.  He’d probably buy an airline just to give them something to do during the day, too.

      “Soon.  We just have to say goodbye to everyone and put our things in the car.  Though, we do have a _lot_ of things, so we might be here a little longer than I expected.”

And, from the look on both Martin and Douglas’s faces, neither was looking forward to being Arthur’s baggage handlers for the return trip.

      “I am certain Charles will be happy to add his effort to your initiative so that your hoped-for timetable is met.”

      “Charles!  I asked him today if he and his wife will come to the wedding… WEDDING!... and he said yes, so that’s another two guests for my list.”

      “Excellent.  Here, let us see if Gregory is available so that you may spend a few moments with him before you begin your final preparations.  I am certain he will be very happy for any extra time he can gain with you before your departure.”

      “Yes!  And I need to check again that all of my information is in his phone, so that we can chat and text and email and have our video talks and watch films together… I’m going to make sure that whenever Greg wants company, he’ll have it so he doesn’t get lonely or sad.”

      “An excellent plan.  I feel quite confident that with your diligent attention to his welfare, Gregory’s recovery shall proceed by leaps and bounds.”

Mycroft swept the pick up sticks onto Sam’s lap and rose to accompany the steward to begin the process of saying his farewells.  Not that it made him particularly happy, but his wish that the boys remain a little longer in London, say thirty or so years, was not important.  They had their own life together to begin and it was enough that he could help make that start a comfortable one.  The grocery and firewood delivery for their temporary home should just be underway…

__________

Arthur had to be coaxed away from Lestrade’s side to supervise the stowing of his souvenirs in the waiting car, but hurried back the moment he was able and was happy to find Sherlock just leaving the room when he arrived.

      “Greg?  Can I come in?”

      “Of course!  Are you ready to leave?”

      “Almost.  Skip is looking through the house one last time so we don’t leave anything behind and Douglas said that Mycroft said he could have a little present to take home, so he and Doctor Sam are picking it out.”

Lestrade laughed and waved Arthur over, hoping that Sam’s sense of mischief didn’t cost Mycroft _too_ much money.

      “I’m sure they’ll find the perfect thing.  I’m going to miss all of you, you know.  It’s been wonderful having you here, lad, and I want you to remember that you’re welcome anytime you want to stop in for a visit.  Mycroft feels that way, too, and so does Sherlock, John and Sam.  You’re family now and we expect to hear from you a lot, even if you and Martin are finding all sorts of things to do to keep you busy in that little house of yours.”

      “We will!  I mean, you will!  I think.  Anyway, we are going to visit whenever we can and we’ve got lots of other ways to chat and visit when we can’t be here in person.  And I’m going to use them all!”

      “I’m counting on that.  With Mycroft at work, my only company is going to be Sam, probably, since Sherlock’s about at the end of his tether and it going to want John back on a more regular basis in their own flat, with a juicy case to solve.  I’ll be thankful to get a call or a text to brighten my day.”

      “You’ll get lots, I promise.”

      “Good.  So, why don’t you come over here and give me a hug and then let’s see about getting me into my chair so I can be old and silly and wave to you from the curb as you drive away.”

      “Hurray!”

Arthur rushed forward and gave Lestrade the gentlest non-fingertip hug he could, then got the wheelchair from the closet and set it up before helping Lestrade out of bed.

      “There we are.  And you’ll need your hat and scarf because it’s gotten quite nippy out.  Oh, and your lab blanket!”

Lestrade patiently waited for Arthur to bundle him for the few minutes of brisk air, then was set in motion, doing a very credible royal wave as he rolled through the door and past Mycroft who smiled and shook his head, curtseying before taking over for Arthur who bounded ahead to find Martin and Douglas for the final push towards Fitton.

      “And how are you, my swaddled Gregory?”

      “A little down, I must admit.  But, I have it on the highest authority that this is not the last we’ll see of that lot.”

      “I am certain you are correct, if for no other reason that Mr. Richardson will need to replenish his illicit fine spirits business from my personal stocks.  Fortunately, the silverware is under lock and key and my pocket squares are monogrammed.”

      “Isn’t it cute when the old buggers think they’re being sneaky and have their bits of fun?”

      “Thus my lack of chastisement or retribution.  It is good for the elderly to keep their morale high and embrace the spirit of the youth they have long since felt ripped from their bosom.”

      “You know, I am the _ultimate_ king of prank gifts for the holidays.  Just throwing that out for consideration, what with Christmas starting to loom on the horizon.”

      “Ah… yes, I believe I understand.  I feel this is a topic on which we shall focus much discussion in the very near future.”

      “No question.  We’re going to make the holidays something to r…remember.”

Mycroft would not dare comment on the little catch in his lover’s voice, because he was experiencing his own small surge of emotion.  They _would_ make the holidays an occasion of note and, if he had his way, which was, of course, guaranteed, this would be the inaugural event for a new family tradition.  Some years, he may not be in attendance, or, unfortunately, his Gregory, but the family _would_ come together and celebrate another year of sharing and enriching each other’s lives.  This was going to be, as Arthur would so succinctly put it, brilliant…

__________

      “Sherry.”

      “Dougie.”

      “Try not to completely alienate the female population of London from all things male in my absence.”

      “And you do your best to stay out of those pesky, butt-hurt, no-name prisons that have your face pinned up on their bulletin boards.”

      “Truly, a wish I fully share.”

      “Then I’ll see you soon.  Keep an eye on the Dynamic Duo, ok?”

      “That requires an effort worthy of the Royal Navy, but I’ll do what I can.  At the very least I’ll lend my supervisory skills to getting them installed in their temporary digs and help distract Carolyn while they race Arthur’s trousseau to its new home.”

      “You’re a real pal.  Seriously, they could do worse.  Not _much_ worse, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

      “Oh look, we’re leaving.  What an unfortunate thing in light of our delightful conversation.”

      “Take care of yourself, Dougie.”

      “You, as well, Sherry.”

      “Give me a buzz when you get the chance.  I’m going to be pulling a lot of Greg hours in the near future, and not in a fun and sexy way, so something to help pass the time isn’t going to be a bad thing.”

      “I’ll do my best to oblige.  And feel free to reciprocate.  If the mood strikes, of course.”

Arthur’s ‘Yeah and Boo!   It’s time to leave!’ cut off the conversation and Sam extended his hand, grateful for Douglas’s eager shake.  It wasn’t often one found friends at his age and he would never take this piece of luck for granted.

      “Coming, Arthur.  Now, what shall we wager the other Holmes brothers pout grandly as the car pulls away and sulk for the remainder of the day like sweets-deprived toddlers?”

      “Nothing, because they will.  That’s going to happen for sure.  I think I’m going to have to do a little vaudeville to keep their spirits up, stupid sentimental fuckers that they are.”

      “And now I am more glad than ever that London is about to become a pretty picture through the window of a nicely-appointed aircraft.  Onward and upward.”

Douglas heaved a large sigh and strolled towards the car, his own dissatisfaction at their departure carefully hidden from view.  Adventures with Martin and Arthur rarely turned out well, but this was a notable exception.  One he was anxious to repeat…

      “Ok, now we’ve got Douglas.  And Skip.  And Douglas Bear, Skip Bear and Arthur Bear.  And Mum Bear in her own sac because she gets a little testy crowded in with the other bears.  We’ve got all our clothes and souvenirs and wedding things and snacks.  I think we are officially ready to leave.  Unless I’ve forgotten something.”

Martin patted Arthur’s shoulder and tried to usher Arthur into the car, feeling no surprise when the steward broke away for another round of hugs, giving a firm one to Mycroft, a soft one to Lestrade, another firm one to John and Sam and then pouted because Sherlock wasn’t there to receive his.  In fact, Sherlock hadn’t been in the house since he left Lestrade’s room and Arthur was the only one who didn’t understand that Sherlock was not going to handle this, albeit temporary, goodbye very well and was making himself scarce so he didn’t reveal that particular fact.

      “Can I give you another one, Doctor Watson, so you can pass it along to Mr. Sherlock?”

      “Of course.  I’ll see that he gets it as soon as possible.”

John accepted his second hug and Arthur’s whispered ‘take care of Mr. Sherlock, too, ok?’ and smiled as the steward finally pulled away and, after a large wave, climbed into the car, followed quickly by Martin to prevent another escape, and more sedately by Douglas in case Arthur mowed down Martin while making the anticipated escape.  When the door finally closed, four hearts broke a little and then a little more as the car pulled away and began to drive off, Lestrade, as promised , waving until he could no longer see Arthur waving back at him.

      “You alright, Mycroft?”

      “I believe I am.  But, I will not deny that, though it is utterly ridiculous, I already miss that segment of our merry band.”

      “It’s not ridiculous, because I do, too.  And Sam looks about ready to cry.”

      “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, invalid.”

      “Come on, Sam.  I’ll buy you a drink.”

      “Thanks, John.  Glad someone here has a good head on their shoulders.  Speaking of head, do we know where Curls got off to?”

      “Not exactly… but I may have an idea.”

__________

      “Mr. Sherlock!”

Arthur leapt out of the car and ran towards Sherlock, who was standing at the foot of the stairs of the airplane.

      “Mycroft must have disgraced himself shamefully by blubbering like an infant.  I have been waiting for an eternity.”

Martin and Douglas wisely decided to begin loading their goods onto the aircraft and give the detective and his part-time assistant a little time to say goodbye.

      “Mycroft was a bit sad, that’s certainly true.  But, so was I, so I guess it’s only fair.  And he made me promise to call and visit and gave me a very nice hug… I’m going to miss Mycroft a lot, actually.  He’s… well, he’s brilliant, there’s really no other word for it.  I knew that the first time I talked to him, actually, on my mobile.  Remember that?  He was funny and smart and… well, he really is, isn’t he?  And he listens.  And cares.”

      “Oddly, he does.  You should check periodically to ensure your soul is still intact.”

      “Hah!  I’m not sure what that means, but I know it was funny, because you had your ‘I’m making a joke face’ on!  That’s why you’re brilliant, as well, Mr. Sherlock.  You’re funny and smart, too, but in a different way than Mycroft.  And, of course, you’re a detective, which is especially brilliant, since I can be your assistant.  When I think about all the things I ‘m thankful for in life, meeting you is definitely up at the top of my list.  I don’t ever want to say I’m happy for Skip’s _little problem_ , but… it did bring some good things and those I can say I _am_ happy for.  Like meeting you!”

Which was precisely why Sherlock didn’t want to say goodbye without other eyes watching.  It was a rare thing that people were glad to know him and it was something he was still struggling with understanding, let alone accepting.  But, Arthur considered him a friend, a valued one, at that… and he wasn’t at all unhappy with the idea.

      “Yes, I can easily see why meeting me was a high point in your life.”

      “Ah hah!  There’s the face again!  When Skip and I visit London again, can we stay with you and Doctor Watson for some of the time?  That really was a lot of fun, not that staying with Mycroft and Greg wasn’t a lot of fun, but it was a different type of fun and, since I like both, I’d like to get a little of both every time we visit.  So, can we?”

      “It would, I suppose, give me the opportunity to more closely study your comestibles-centered experimental methodology.”

      “Come again?”

      “Yes, you may stay with John and I when you visit London.”

      “Hurray!  And you’ll stay with us, right, when you come to Fitton?  Not that you have much _reason_ to come to Fitton, nobody does, really, but you can stay with Skip and I anytime, no matter where we live.”

      “That will appeal to John’s miserly nature, so I believe you can rest assured we would be houseguests on the hopefully-rare occasion we find ourselves in the Fitton area.”

      “Double hurray!  And… oh dear.  That’s Skip’s slightly-impatient face, which isn’t nearly as bad as his actually-impatient face, but it’s close.  I think I have to go.”

Sherlock nodded and reached into his pocket, thrusting his hand forward with the contents clutched between his fingers.

      “Here.”

      “What’s this?”

Arthur took the leather-bound book from Sherlock’s hand and flipped through the blank pages.

      “For your case notes.  You should write them after every case so you remember the details, should you have to give evidence in court or in case those details prove useful in a future investigation.”

      “My own case notebook?”

      “It is a valuable tool for any detective and I will provide you with another when that one has been filled.”

Arthur’s hug knocked the wind out of Sherlock’s lungs, but he couldn’t find it in him to complain.

      “Thanks, Mr. Sherlock!  This is brilliant!  I’m going to write down everything I remember from all the cases we’ve had so far.  I have some notes for a few, but didn’t write down everything, so I’ll start on that right away.  In fact, I can work on that when Skip is reading so I stay busy, which is generally a good thing, because, then, I don’t bother Skip and he can actually read and not spend his reading time talking to me or playing cards or watching the telly.”

      “Very efficient.  I will look over your notes the next time we meet and make any corrections or additions, as necessary.”

      “And then we can solve another case so I can have fresh notes!”

      “I suspect that is a likely scenario, yes.  Now, run along, before Martin’s eyes become permanently fixed in that unfortunate position.”

      “Yeah, he does do a bit of a cross-eyed squint when he’s getting to actually-impatient.  Thanks again, Mr. Sherlock.  I’m going to miss you.”

Sherlock endured another crushing hug before watching Arthur sprint up the stairs of the plane, then shared a nod with Martin before turning and walking away towards the cab that had brought him to the airfield.  Now it would just be him and John.  And Lestrade.  The elderly pestilence that was Sherrinford.  And Mycroft, who was just as bothersome as Sherrinford, though not as ancient.  And there were others, like Molly and Mrs. Hudson who were never far away … it should _not_ matter that a scant few people he knew were leaving.  But it did.  Fortunately, John was good at talking about things that shouldn't matter, but did…

__________

      “Fitton!”

Arthur nearly gave the peeking-out-the-window-from-the-aisle-seat Martin an uppercut as he flung his hands in the air to celebrate their arrival.

      “And exactly as dull and dreary as we left it.  How felicitous.”

      “Exactly, Douglas.  I absolutely agree.”

      And, do you know what felicitous means, Arthur?”

      “Well, no.  I must admit I don’t.  But it sounds lovely, doesn’t it?  And lovely words have to mean good things, so you’re saying that coming home is a good thing and I agree with that.  Sort of.  It’s about halfway each way on the subject of good and not-so-good, but that’s still a lot of good, so hurray!”

Douglas shook his head and leaned back in his seat, readying himself for the return to his normal life.  Which was a good life, there was no doubt about it.  But, a quick look at the wall chart for the next window of opportunity to pop back to London was certainly not inappropriate.

      “Yes, hurray.  Now, I suppose you and Martin are preparing to beg me to assist you with the relocation process, so let me save you the trouble and my head an intolerable pain.  Without proper supervision, I have no doubt this objective will turn into a debacle of the most gargantuan proportions and I’d rather not spend our flight tomorrow listening to the details of said debacle in excruciating stereo.  Therefore, the remainder of the day will proceed thusly:  I will direct and you will take the direction as literally as is humanly possible.  Then, you shall reward my benevolence with a hearty meal, purchased from one of Fitton’s fine, or as fine as we get in this dim corner of civilization, food purveyors.”

      “Brilliant!”

Martin’s groan earned him a confused, but comforting, pat from Arthur, who then grasped his hand tightly in preparation for landing.  This was going to be a great day!  And it was going to end even better!  And tomorrow would start even betterer, which wasn’t a word, but that was ok since he didn’t say it aloud so it didn’t count.  Go to bed with Skip, wake up with Skip… that was the most brilliant thing imaginable, and he could imagine a LOT.  All they had to do was move their things into Mycroft’s little house and then it would be him and Skip going to bed and getting up together almost every single day.  Really, what could possibly be more brilliant?

__________

      “SKIP BRILLIANT!”

This groan Martin came from deep within Martin’s core and he wished he had Mycroft Bear with him so he could pound the proxy’s head good and hard.

      “Oh my, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your covered wagon looking quite so spiffy.”

Douglas smiled gleefully at Martin’s growing irritation and Arthur’s unbridled adoration of the newly-painted van.  Though newly-painted was only, really, the tip of the iceberg, since the new, professionally-designed ‘Icarus Removals’ logo adorning the sides was truly the pièce de résistance.

      “Oh!  There’s a note!”

Arthur snatched the piece of paper from under the wiper blade and began reading, though he had to be reminded by a still-amused Douglas to share his knowledge by reading aloud.

_Mr. Crieff,_

_Upon inspection, a rather sizeable and recently-acquired scratch was noticed in your vehicle’s paint.  As you have not been in possession of your vehicle for some time and it has been subject to several relocations without your assistance, responsibility for the damage has been assumed and reparations have been made._

_Thank you for your understanding,_

_(signature completely illegible and, in Martin’s opinion, entirely fictitious)_

      “Isn’t that nice?  I told you, Mycroft is the nicest person, so it’s not surprising that he has nice people working for him.”

      “Yes, incredibly nice, isn’t that right, Sir.  And what a _nice_ job they did buffing out that pesky scratch.  Almost as _nice_ as the eye-catching advertising, beckoning clients to your stagnating business.  Now, let us pry our eyes from this museum-quality piece of automotive beauty and move Arthur’s gift shop into your new abode.  This is only Phase I, you know.  Phase II will be tossing your last few possessions from the commune into a take-away bag.  Phase III will be taking on Arthur’s mountain of belongings and, at least, transporting the most vital for his immediate survival.  Since that will likely fill your delightful van to the brim, we should make quick work of this phase and move forward.  My digestion will not benefit from a late-night thank-you meal and I will happily let it exact it’s vengeance on you tomorrow in the cockpit.  Come along.”

Douglas motioned for the driver to pop open the boot of the large car that had brought them from the airfield and removed his small case, glowering at Martin and Arthur to begin taking the rest.

      “Moving!”

Arthur happily loaded up his arms and dashed towards the front door, leaving Martin to shamble after him like a motion-impaired zombie.  It was barely lunchtime and, already, Douglas was being insufferable, Arthur was in his own little world and his level of annoyance was approaching critical.  Well, he couldn’t say any of it wasn’t normal, so the day should go about as well as any other.  Which, strangely, was somewhat comforting…

__________

      “I’d rather not.”

      “Arthur…”

      “Can’t I wait in the van?  It’s really lovely, since they painted on the inside as well as the outside and gave the seats a bit of a polish.”

      “Arthur, love, you have to go inside if you want to get your things.”

      “But, Mum’s in there.”

Yes, she was… glaring at them through the window as he and Arthur sat in his van and Douglas stood outside, adding his glare to the overall force of irritation.

      “You have to tell your mother, Arthur.  And remember that the phrase ‘your Mother’ implies that she is the mother of _you_ , so _you_ should be the one to tell her _you_ are moving in with me.”

      “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Douglas took Arthur’s moment of self-reflection to yank Mr. Snowball out of the steward’s hands and toss him across the front yard, nodding with satisfaction as Arthur bounded after it like an eager canine after its favorite toy.

      “Now that I have extracted young Arthur, let’s keep him in motion, what say?”

Martin scowled, but got out of the van and linked his arm with Arthur’s, after Mr. Snowball had been retrieved, escorting his flustered fiancé towards the front door, which opened magically when they set foot on the doorstep.

      “Should I ask what this dithering is about or should I assume it is a natural behavior of the idiot species and let the matter rest?”

      “Hi, Mum.  How was Greece?”

      “Barely tolerable, however… I will give it to Mr. Holmes.  He has a talent for making the barely tolerable _very_ tolerable through the effective and abundant use of luxury.  Now, to what do I owe this whole-company greeting and be very aware that if your answer involves costing me money, I shall recoup my losses through the sale of leather made from each of your hides.”

Martin looked at Arthur, who looked back at Martin, who looked to Douglas for help, who rolled his eyes and shoved the engaged couple into the house, shooing Carolyn to follow to where they could all, at least, sit down for this chat.  Once everyone had taken a seat around the kitchen table, three sets of eyes focused on Arthur, who tried very hard to turn invisible and, when that failed, to make one of Sherlock’s steely looks, which failed, also, as did his attempt at Mycroft’s smooth and smug air of calm.

      “Arthur Shappey!  Will you stop making ridiculous faces and tell me what this is about?”

      “Right!  Sorry, Mum.  Well, it’s like this.  Did I ask you about Greece, yet?”

      “Oh, dear lord.  Arthur, I would not have thought it possible for you to become even more witless than you already were, but you are well and truly proving me wrong.”

      “Yes!  I mean… no.  I think.  And yes, again… we _are_ here for a reason, all of us, even Douglas!, because it’s important and, well, the more hands the better, because I _do_ have a lot of things and Douglas doesn’t want eat late and be gassy tomorrow…”

      “This is rolling downhill with the rapidity of a runaway train.  Martin, you are hereby appointed spokesperson for your nitwitted band.  Begin speaking… now.”

Arthur’s ‘hurray’ earned him a scowl from the pilot, who heaved a sigh and realized he should have expected this all along.

      “Alright… it’s like this.  Arthur and I made a decision in London.  Well, it wasn’t so much of a decision, since it rather came together on its own and, since there really is no reason for us not to get started on it today, we thought we might as well go ahead and do it.”

      “If you believe, for one fraction of a moment, that any of that made sense, I will officially declare you unfit to fly and assign you the role of official MJN coat rack, instead.”

      “No, I know it didn’t, we’re just… well, Arthur and I are a bit nervous about it, how you’ll take the news, actually, so… ok.  Here’s the thing… Arthur and I decided that, since we’re getting married soon, and I’m staying in Mycroft’s rented house for the time being… well, why live there alone when I could live there with my fiancé?”

Arthur’s eager nodding and Martin’s attempt at an ingratiating smile had no visible effect on the MJN CEO and Martin wasn’t sure if that could be considered a good or bad thing.

      “I see.  And you agreed to this, Arthur?”

      “Of course!  I love Skip and we’re going to live together when we’re husbands, so why not start now?  And Mycroft’s little house is a brilliant little house and will be amazing to live in until we can find something that we can actually afford on our own.  And it’s not far from here, so we can visit you and you can visit us and it’ll almost be like I’m still living here, except I won’t be, but that’s ok because we’ll see each other almost every day because of work and have dinners together when we want to and… everything!”

      “Hmmm… and I suppose you’re here to pack your bags and set your foot on that path today?”

      “That’s the plan, yes.  We put away our things from London already and loaded the last of Skip’s things in the van and now I just have to get my clothes and books and animals and games and pictures.  Not that I might get everything in one go, because I do have a lot of things, Douglas even said so, but I can get a lot and it’s not like I can’t get the rest another day.  So… yes.  I’m going to live with Skip and we’re going to start living today.  Not that we haven’t already been living, but just not together, so it’s a completely different thing.”

      “And how do you plan on funding your newly-acquired independence?”

      “Uh… well, we won’t have rent, at least not for awhile, and I’m going to look for a second job that I can work when we’re not flying.  Skip already has a second job and I can help him with that, too, so he can do more work with his van, which looks brilliant now that it has new paint… we’ll find a way, mum.  It’s only a little house, so it shouldn’t need much electricity or heat, and it’s got a fireplace, so that will help, and Skip and I can drink lot of juice to save on water.  We can do it, mum, I know we can.”

      “Do you have anything to add to this, Martin?”

      “Well… no.  Or, yes.  I know it won’t be easy, we _both_ know that, actually, and we might go through some tough times, but it won’t be any different after we’re married, so I suppose it’s a good thing we start to work on solutions for those tough times now, while we, at least, don’t have a rent payment hanging over our heads, though that’s only for a few more months.”

      “And what do you plan on doing when this house is no longer available?  Let me be very clear that it is not my dream for my golden years to have my adult son and his husband as my non-paying tenants.”

      “We’re going to look for our own little house, mum!  Which will probably be a little flat, actually, but that’s going to be fine, because it will be ours and that’s the only thing that’s important.  Lots of people don’t have a lot of money, but it doesn’t mean they live bad lives or aren’t happy.  Skip and I are going to be _very_ happy no matter how much money we have or don’t have and that’s the thing I care about most.”

Martin knew that Arthur had no real idea about what life with little money meant, but he’d do everything in his power to make sure that his fiancé never became an expert on that particular topic.  When they needed it… well, maybe he’d talk to Sam or Mycroft about a little help.  Just a tiny bit of temporary, would-definitely-be-paid-back help, but something to tide him and Arthur over when the bad times looked more like the disastrous times…

      “You sound very adamant, Arthur, and that is as rare as a fiver in Martin’s pocket.  Let me get my keys.”

      “Ummm… why?”

      “Because I need to inspect this house before I allow you to move into it.  It if is as atrocious as Martin’s coop, expect that I will be securing your leg to the floor with a chain so you can, in no manner, spend even one night under its roof.”

Carolyn rose from the table and the three males looked between each other before jumping up to follow.  Not that they had any real worry, since little on Earth was as uninspiring as Martin’s flat, but a happy Carolyn was an accommodating Carolyn and a happy Carolyn was certainly not one you made wait in her car…

__________

      “Oh.”

      “See, Mum?  It’s a brilliant little house, isn’t it?”

Whatever Carolyn was expecting to see, it certainly wasn’t a tidy, solid and lovely structure on a respectable expanse of property.

      “It looks like something that would house a family of beggarly mice, but I suppose that does put it head and shoulders above Martin’s cell.”

      “She likes it!”

      “I didn’t say that, idiot boy, I only upgraded its standing from failure to potential failure.  I have yet to inspect the interior.”

      “Oh, right.  Let’s get started, then.  I’ll give you the tour, which doesn’t take very long since it’s so small and cozy.”

Arthur bolted out of the car and Carolyn turned to glare at the two remaining passengers as if it was their fault that the house didn’t immediately disqualify itself from the competition.

      “If you’re trying to turn me to stone, I suggest you add a little fuel to your fire.  Hold up a snap of Hercules in swim trunks.  That should do it.”

      “Shut up, Douglas.  And get out of my car.”

One step over the threshold, Carolyn lost the last bit of her tiny hope that this would be a blatant death trap.  In fact, she had to admit that it was precisely the sort of house she would like, now that she was going to be the only resident of her own, far-too-large-for-one-person home.

      “There’s barely room to swing a cat in here.”

      “Why would Skip or I want to do that?  We don’t have a cat and, even if we did, we’d love it and you don’t swing around things you love.  Unless they _want_ to be swung, like the little kiddies who want you to hold their hands and spin around so they get a whirly ride.  Come on, let me show you the rest.”

Arthur dragged his mother through the house and around the yard, while Martin and Douglas used the time to make a little tea and enjoy the respite before Phase III began in full.  Which it would.  There was no mistaking Carolyn’s face when she saw the house…

      “And we’re back!  Oh good, you made tea.  I’ll make more so everyone can have a fresh, hot cup.”

The pilot and co-pilot grinned at their boss, who glared back, but took a seat in the comfortable, well-organized kitchen and released a long sigh of defeat.  And, if she was to be completely honest, relief.  Arthur could do as he pleased, so his moving out wasn’t even a topic of discussion.  However, into _what_ he moved was very much within her jurisdiction and this… this was acceptable, even by her own, painfully-high standards.

      “Well?”

      “I would say, Martin, that your cousin has, again, proven himself a man with greater-than-marginal taste.”

      “You _do_ like it.”

      “That, Douglas, is subject to debate, however, I can find nothing that immediately inspires me to call an exterminator or an exorcist so, for the time being, I can offer no substantial objection to Arthur making his home within these four walls.  If, however, that becomes _three_ walls because of substandard construction and a strong gust of wind, the negotiations will begin again.”

      “Hurray!  Skip, we have our house!”

Arthur began dancing and it fell to Douglas to finish preparing and serving the tea, which neatly camouflaged his own mote of satisfaction.  Here, at least, Martin and Arthur could have the basic creature comforts and… there was good in that.  Not that he would ever mention it out loud, but it was definitely something to be thankful for.

      “Temporary, love, but yes, yes we do.  And as soon as we finish our tea, we can start moving your things.”

Arthur took a gulp of his tea, then began running in circles trying to suck in enough air to cool the throat burn.

      “I think we might be wise to sacrifice this round in favor of securing your future husband’s survival, Mon Capitaine.”

      “Yes, you might be right.”

__________

The remainder of the day was a flurry of picking, packing, porting and finally picnicking in the new Crieff-Shappey house, with take-away cartons littering the sofa table and a fire roaring in the fireplace.  With a long, firm hug of her son, Carolyn was the first to leave, after reminding everyone about the morning’s pick-up time, then it was Douglas an hour or so later, after reminding Arthur and Martin that connubial bliss was no excuse for being late and leaving him with the pre-flight responsibilities.  With the house finally to themselves, the couple quickly cleaned up, then settled in on the sofa to watch the fire and enjoy the additional warmth of a thick, shared blanket.

      “Well, Skip… we’re here.”

      “That we are.  And with a lot less fuss than I was anticipating.”

      “Me, too.  And most of mum’s fuss was just for show.  She was happy we were going to be staying here; I could tell that right away.  And I don’t think she’s going to be very lonely because we really are close to her house and we’ll see her all the time.  Even when we get our own flat, Fitton’s not very big so we can never be very far away no matter where we are.”

Martin gave his fiancé a kiss and smiled at Arthur’s final loss of worry about his mother.  One thing Martin knew, deep down, was that if Carolyn had truly been upset at the idea, Arthur would have scrapped it and waited until she was comfortable with the situation before moving in.  His heart was simply too tender and large for anything else and Martin loved him dearly for it.

      “That’s very true.  And Douglas is close, too.  I suspect, much to my distress, that we’ll find him knocking on our door now and then, now that we actually have a door to knock on.”

      “Oh, I know he will.  And that’s positively brilliant!  Douglas is a lot of fun, when he’s not being… well, Douglas-y, and that’s what wonderful about our little house.  It’s perfect for having fun people visit and sit by the fire and play games and chat.”

      “And it’s perfect for when there’s nobody here but _us_ to sit by the fire and play games and chat.”

      “And cuddle.”

      “Without doubt.”

      “Every night.”

      “Every night.”

      “Have I told you today that I love you, Skip?”

      “Yes, but I never mind hearing it, so go ahead.”

      “I love you, Skip.”

      “And I love you, Arthur.  Time to cuddle?”

      “Yes, though, after we call London and tell them we’re here and moved in.”

      “We can do that on the sofa, right?”

      “I do have my phone with me, so yes we can.”

      “Then you call London and I’ll start cuddling.  When you’re done, you can join me.”

      “That sounds fair.  This is perfect!  Living with you is going to be…”

      “Brilliant?”

      “Sublime!”

      “What?”

      “Mycroft taught me that one.  Doesn’t it sound posh?”

      “It does.  You should save it for special occasions.”

      “I am.  But this is a very special occasion, so that’s why I used it.”

      “You’re a genius, Arthur, and don’t ever believe anything different.”


	22. Chapter 22

Arthur looked over his list and, with the largest grin he had ever managed since Martin proposed, checked off the last item.  At least, the last BIG item.  There were still a few little ones, but those weren’t nearly as important as the BIG ones and now the BIG ones were finished.

      “You look like you’re going to burst, love.”

      “Skip.  We’re getting married.”

      “Which, though it’s a wonderful things, isn’t exactly news.”

      “But now we actually _can_.”

Martin took his fiancé in a hug and let his own grin break through.  It had taken countless hours of looking online, through brochures, driving endless distances… but they finally had a location for the ceremony.  And, it didn’t surprise him, in the least.  A lovely little chapel nestled in a quiet bit of countryside near a positively picturesque village that happened to boast a large, yet quaint inn which offered plenty of space for the number of predicted guests and level of spectacle Arthur wanted.  And, Martin was happy to note, the level of spectacle couldn’t escalate substantially because Mycroft decided the reception wasn’t elaborate enough to meet _his_ standards.  The final bit of perfection, from his fiancé’s standpoint, was that it was within comfortable driving distance from both London and Fitton, so Arthur’s worry of anyone being left out was thoroughly quashed.

      “It’s the perfect location, Arthur.  And, I think the inn was especially happy to have the business, what with it coming into winter.  With the decorations they’re already adding for the coming holidays, we’re sure to have the most beautiful wedding England has ever seen.”

      “Everything was _perfect_!  And the reverend was so nice.  I was… I was a little afraid that… well,  you know… but he was brilliant and I know he’s going to say lovely things and make our wedding the most amazing wedding I can imagine, which is saying a lot because you know the amount of amazingness I can imagine.”

And Arthur never had to know that, before they approached the reverend to discuss their wedding, his loving captain gritted his teeth until they nearly cracked and called Mycroft to have him to do a preliminary check on the man.  If there’d been any hint that they’d get a cold reception when they asked about the possibility of having the ceremony in the chapel, he’d have decided that he didn’t like the venue and nudge Arthur along to a more accommodating location.  Luckily, the news had been good and Mycroft didn’t sound too smug when he called back with the results of his snooping.

      “I agree.  And, now, Mycroft can pass along the information to all the _other_ people who are going to make our wedding the most amazing it can be so they can start their planning.”

      “YES!  Food and chocolates and flowers and music and AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!”

Arthur waved his hands in the air and lit up with a glow Martin absolutely adored.

      “All of that.  And I think we have everything in place, don’t we?”

      “Almost.  We still have to pick the songs we especially want played and Mum needs to find a dress.  And we have to get the formal invitations made and delivered.  Mycroft said to call him and he’d have that tended to if we were a bit late finding a place to be married and we are a bit late, so I’ll ask them to get right on that for us.  And tomorrow is the last fitting for our wedding suits, right?”

      “Unless Mr. Farmer changed his mind about our flight to Austria with the layover in London.”

Mr. Farmer flights were becoming a staple for MJN and Martin wasn’t certain if this was yet another way for Mycroft to stick his meddling fingers in their lives or if Mycroft had decided that having what amounted to a private, trustworthy airline at his disposal was an efficient way to conduct business.

      “He hasn’t.  He would have told me if he had, because he knows how important a proper flight plan is to you and that you like to know all the details ahead of time so everything goes as perfectly as they can.  I just wish we could have longer than a couple of hours in London, because that won’t leave us any time to visit Greg and Mycroft or Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson or Doctor Sam and I really wish we could visit Greg and Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock and…”

      “Yes, that would be nice, but this is just to stop in at the tailor for any last-minute adjustments to our suits.  Anyway we’re seeing all of them soon, aren’t we?”

      “That’s true.  Though Mycroft is being a bit sneaky about the details and I’m not sure what that means.”

Nothing good in Martin’s opinion.  The fact that Douglas just smirked every time they mentioned the upcoming stag night just cemented that opinion firmly, heavily and… cement-y.  And the one time he was foolish enough to ask Sam, the language he’d been assailed with nearly set the phone on fire.

      “If there’s one thing I think we do know for sure, it’s that Mycroft wouldn’t do one thing, sneaky or not, that he didn’t think we’d enjoy for our party.  And we do know he’s been talking to other fools… I mean friends, so I think we can assume they’re going to show us a nice time.”

Well, they would likely show Arthur a nice time while he hid under the table away from the confetti and dancing bears.

      “That’s true.  And we only have to wait a few more days until we find out the surprise, I suppose.”

Just enough time for Martin to find an accommodating sickly child to sneeze on him and contract a case of influenza.

      “That’s right, so don’t be sad.  There’s no reason to be disappointed about tomorrow, when we’re so close to all the happy things you’ve been waiting for.  One Mr. Farmer flight, then that short hop to France and then… we go on official holiday.”

Because it was the stag night, three recovery days and then… luckily, he’d talked Arthur out of writing their own vows so he didn’t have to write anything, which would undoubtedly be disastrously stupid, and, worse, try and memorize something that he’d completely flub at the altar.

      “HOLIDAY!  And WEDDING!  And HONEYMOON!”

Which, at Arthur’s insistence, was a few days in their little house doing nothing but enjoying their newly-wedded bliss, and ice cream, and then right back to work because he was worried all the time they’d spent not flying might somehow be bad luck.  Not that he knew why, but Arthur didn’t need a reason and the trade-off was a 1-year anniversary trip anywhere they wanted to go courtesy of Carolyn.  Just as long as it coincided with a destination they were already flying to for a job and that they didn’t expect more than a three-star hotel in which to celebrate.

      “What could be nicer?  There _is_ still time for that elopement that Sam offered, though.  Forget all the revelry and just concentrate on the most important thing… getting married.”

Martin knew his hopeful smile probably wasn’t going to change Arthur’s mind, but hope sprung eternal.

      “Silly Skipper.  The flowers and cake and food and chocolate and music and dancing isn’t really for us!  Well, it _is_ for us, but not _really_ really.  It’s for all the people who came to say they were happy we were getting married and it’s a happy time for everyone and happy times deserve big, happy parties!  When someone else gets married, then we get to go to a free party to celebrate their happy times and so forth and so on.  It’s a bit like dominoes, actually, though a lot more colorful.”

Well, if one looked at it that way…

      “As always, Arthur, your analysis of the situation is spot-on.”

      “Thanks Skip!  Now, I’ve just got to make my call to London and then we can watch a film before bed.”

Something Martin had come to crave.  Curled on the sofa with his fiancé, a warm fire blazing and a good film.  Or a good book.  Or a jigsaw puzzle or other board game.  Sometimes Douglas was with them and sometimes Carolyn.  Or Herc, who had given them a housewarming gift and made a point of mentioning it to Douglas and shaming him for his bad manners.

They had a home.  He and Arthur had already created a home.  As hard as it was to admit, the others had been right… it wasn’t the house, it was the people in the house that made it a home and when they found the place they’d come to truly call their own, it would be just as much a home this place because his Arthur and their family would _make_ it a home.

      “Shall I get the snacks tray ready while you catch up on the news?”

      “Ooh… that’s a good idea.  It’ll be nice to have a little nibble, whether there’s good or bad news.”

And, lately, it was really a roll of the dice as to which that would be.

__________

      “Ah Arthur, how good to hear you voice.”

      “Hi, Mycroft.  It’s good to hear yours, too.  Is it a red day or green day?”

Mycroft smiled at Arthur’s encoded greeting.  It was their way of describing how well his beloved had fared and offered the steward a platform on which to build his conversation when… if… the phone was passed to Lestrade.  Since his lover had begun to demonstrate greater mobility, the implementation of introductory forms of physical therapy had begun, the aftermath of which was not always jubilant.

      “I believe it is, actually, a yellow day.  We removed Gregory’s hospital bed and replaced it with a sofa possessing a rather handy reclining element, so Gregory can rest comfortably, or work on sitting straight for longer periods of time.”

      “It’s not too soft, is it?”

      “No, that mistake was not one I would care to see repeated.  It is suitably firm and appropriately designed so that he is not subject to undue stresses.  However… I do believe he was not entirely content to see his bed removed.”

      “Well, I can understand that.”

Something Mycroft could not begin to claim and it had been vexing him terribly.

      “Oh?  Please, enlighten me.”

      “Ok, I think it’s rather like when you have a cold and that means you can lie in bed all day with hot tea and films and you don’t have to hoover or tend to the laundry because… well, you’re sick!  But then you get well and now you don’t have a reason not to hoover to do laundry, so if you don’t do them, you feel a bit guilty, even if you’re still tired from being sick.”

As for all conversations with Arthur, the words made a strange amount of sense.

      “Ah… so in removing the bed, we have removed, in Gregory’s mind, a tangible reason for his inability to demonstrate greater range of physical prowess.  I believe I understand.”

      “Greg probably doesn’t though, so you might want to have a little chat about it.  Skip talked about that with his therapist this week and then he and I talked about it.  How you don’t always understand why you feel the way you do, even though you feel it a LOT, I mean.”

      “I shall sit with him and discuss this very thing.  Now, are you prepared for tomorrow?”

      “We are!  The pick up isn’t as early as it is sometimes, so Skip and I are going to watch a film before going to bed.  And I can’t wait to see what the suits look like now that they’re completely and finally done.”

An experience that Mycroft had delighted in.  Introducing his tailor to Arthur and Martin had been another of the many small joys associated with the whole wedding affair and working to craft the perfect suits for the ceremony… utter bliss.

      “I am certain they shall fully meet your expectations.”

Which, as soon as that had been verified, would signal the construction of a second pair of identical suits in case the unfortunate occurred before the actual ceremony took place. Between dressing and the altar was a myriad of hazards to encounter and, if Martin and Arthur shared a common trait, it was their ability to draw any potential hazard in the immediate vicinity directly into their path.

      “Brilliant!  And I’m trying not to be sad that we won’t get to visit tomorrow, since we’re not in London for very long, but I wanted you to know that I _will_ be sad so you won’t think that I came to London and _wasn’t_ sad that I didn’t visit.”

      “Duly noted.  Now, shall I transfer you to Gregory or shall you begin your film viewing at this point?”

      “Hmmmm…. I talked to Greg twice this morning and I didn’t do very much the rest of the day except sit with Mum and talk about her roses, because I had a thought that when Skip and I have a little house of our own, it would be brilliant to have lovely roses in the yard.  Actually, I want lots of lovely flowers of all kinds and colors and smells so everywhere you look is something brilliant to see.  And did you know you can plant flowers to attract butterflies and bees?  Well, you can and I want LOTS of those so we can have butterflies and bees, as well as birds, which is a quite a number of ‘b’s’ I know… the letter ‘b’ I mean, not the insect, but they’re brilliant so why not want as many as we can have?”

      “Good heavens!  I heartily applaud your forethought.  When you and Martin are ensconced in your permanent residence, I have no doubt it shall be a veritable paradise.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft!  I do want a good plan so Skip and I can get it just the way we like it as quickly as possible.  I’m practicing with your little house, already.  Finding just the right pictures for the walls, and where to put the furniture and the best dishes to use… I’ve made lots of notes so I won’t forget a thing.”

      “Eminently practical.  Now, I suggest you make a start on your film so that you do not experience fatigue tomorrow and greet the tailor with a slouch, lest your suits not fit properly on your wedding day.”

      “Good idea!  Tell Greg goodnight for me?  And Doctor Sam, if he’s there?”

The inevitable fly in the ointment.

      “I shall distribute your greetings as proscribed.  And pay my respects to Martin.”

      “I will.  Bye, Mycroft!”

      “Good evening, Arthur.”

Mycroft terminated the call and thought a moment about how many phone conversations in his life ended with a smile on his lips…

      “Arthur made his nightly report?”

And away flies the smile like a bird on the wing.

      “That Arthur sees fit to check on the welfare of his loved ones on a regular basis is something to be admired.”

      “I agree.  Too bad he’s wasting his time on this raggedly band of fuck-ups.”

      “Kindly do not place me in any category that currently boasts you as a member.”

      “I’m hurt.  Now, I’m going to spend the next hour filling out your subscription paperwork for _High Times_ and _Mother Jones_ , then empty your fridge into a few bags and make my way home.  Call me if you need me.”

Idiot.  And… what?

      “Surely, you are not leaving?”

      “I am.  And don’t call me Shirley.”

      “Buffoon.  I do not believe it wise for you to leave Gregory without recourse to medical attention.”

      “He’s crawling up and down stairs and not doing too shabby a job with his physical therapy.  I can go home and he won’t burst into flames, I promise.”

      “ _Because_ he is still undergoing strenuous therapy, I feel a doctor on hand at all times is a prudent decision.”

      “What he’s doing isn’t strenuous.  A little stretching, some deep breathing, weight work that amounts to lifting a french fry… This is mostly keeping him moving and giving the therapist an idea of where he is, physically, and what needs to be done as they move along.  When things get really shitty, I can hang around more and keep an eye on all those pesky doctory things, but right now, that isn’t necessary.  Anyway, my luscious ass is back here in the morning since, as predicted, Sherlock is dragging John away from some foreplay, I mean, for a case, and I could use a few hours sleep before then.”

      “You have happily enjoyed the overnight amenities of my home and I see no reason why you cannot continue to do so tonight.”

      “ _I_ do.  I want to splay out on the couch in my boxers, drink, watch tv and scratch myself.  If you’re struck blind because you catch me doing that here, I’m never going to be able to move out because you’ll make me be your seeing-eye dog for the rest of my life.”

Mycroft’s involuntary shudder of disgust nicely warmed Sam’s heart.

      “Be that as it may… Gregory, as you know, did not experience a highly positive day and I feel that the added upheaval of being left to his own devices will be very detrimental to his mental well-being.”

      “You actually said something that made sense.  Did it hurt?”

      “Will you kindly respond my argument?”

      “If I _have_ to.  Here goes… you’re right in thinking the invalid didn’t orgasm over his bed going bye-bye, and, maybe he won’t be happy to see that you’re the only one here to keep him away from the Reaper’s bony fingers, but it’s a clean break.  We’re closing a door and closing it firmly.  Whatever goes on from here is going to depend on who Greg is and what he’s made of.  His genetics, physical history and willpower are in the driver’s seat now.  How far he gets in his recovery is going to depend on things he _can_ control and things he _can’t_ , but it doesn’t alter the fact it’s all on him now.  That sucks donkey dicks, but it’s the truth and no one can change it.  So, clean break.  Rhymes with peen steak, which is what I suspect Greggy’s been dining on with some degree of regularity lately.”

      “Your vulgarity is, unbelievably, more off-putting than your hygiene.”

      “I try my best.  So, I’m going home soon and you, lucky boy, get to feed your fiancé a hearty meal of peen steak with special sauce.  I’ll even ok a little of that scotch you love so much for dessert.  But I _am_ going home.  Greg needs to cut a few ties to move forward, so cut them we shall.”

Dastardly fiend.  Unfortunately, Mycroft couldn’t muster a credible rebuttal so tried to immolate his brother with the heat of his annoyance, instead.

      “Will you give me your word, your most solemn and sincere word, that this is the correct choice for Gregory’s recovery?”

      “I do _not_ fuck around with a patient’s health, Skinny.  I thought we settled that.”

      “Yes… I simply…”

Sam watched his little brother lapse into silence and wished that a patient’s recuperation could be a little easier on the loved ones in their lives.

      “I know.  And I do understand, but this _is_ the right decision, Mycroft.  If you want, have one of your men-in-black cars wait outside my building tonight in case you need for me to come back.”

That was not the _worst_ idea his brother had ever generated.  And it would, undoubtedly, ease his Gregory’s mind, which was of paramount importance.

      “That is acceptable.”

      “Good, then let me go about my business and I’ll check in before I leave.  If you need to, you can call with a question, even if you’re not dragging my ass back to the salt mine.  If something worries you, don’t hesitate to give me a buzz.”

      “Very well.  But I expect you back in the morning no later than the appointed starting time for your tenure.”

      “Which is?”

      “….early.”

      “You’re sad.  Now, fuck off and let me finish up with my important business.”

      “Do not abscond with any further of my possessions, Sherrinford.”

      “Who?  Me?”

      “Where is my custom-tailored bathrobe?”

      “It’s gone to a better place.”

      “Your despicable flat is not a ‘better place.’ “

      “I reject your reality and substitute my own.”

      “Give me strength…”

      “I’ll give you a kiss if that helps.”

      “Goodbye, Sherrinford.”

      “Goodbye, sweetie-pie.”

__________

      “Sherlock, are you ever coming to bed?”

Why John bothered to ask that, he didn’t know since it was highly unlikely his partner had consciously heard what he said and/or cared.  Drastic measures were called for.

      NO!”

For someone who should be inured to the nastier things in life, the wet-finger-in-the-ear maneuver absolutely devastated the detective and John thanked his lucky stars he’d figured that out.

      “Then pay attention.  Are you ever coming to bed?”

      “I _am_ in bed, so your question is nonsensical.”

      “Alright Mr. Semantics… are you ever going to _sleep_ in this bed?”

      “Later, perhaps.”

      “How about “Yes, John.  Now, in fact.’ “

      “Why would I say that since I am not tired and have important work to do?”

      “Because you love me and I can’t sleep with you muttering and clicking and wriggling.  Go on the sofa if you want to work.”

      “No, it’s more comfortable here.”

      “Sherlock… I’m tired…”

      “Then sleep.  Of course, you might consider it a more professional use of your time to discuss with me what I’ve found in Lestrade’s browser history.”

John groaned into his pillow, then sat up, noticing for the first time that Sherlock was not working on one of their computers, but one he, apparently, had stolen from Lestrade.

      “Why did you steal Greg’s computer?”

      “Data.”

      “What possible data could you want from Greg’s computer?”

      “I want to set a baseline for his state of mind.  From what I can gather he is not convinced he shall return to the police force.”

John sighed heavily and got settled with a pillow at his back so he could comfortably peer at the laptop screen.

      “I could have told you that if you’d asked.”

      “Why would you not tell me without my asking?”

      “Because it’s… well, it’s not precisely confidential, but it’s still sensitive information and as Greg’s doctor, it’s not something I feel comfortable discussing with others without a reason.”

      “Since, I have independently discovered the information, I assume your tedious ‘morals’ can be set aside?”

      “No, I will not set aside my morals for you, Sherlock, but… yes, I can talk about this, I suppose.  And it’s not as bad as you’re likely thinking.”

      “He has been researching careers in security, consulting and… I despair to consider it… teaching.”

      “Hey!  That last idea was mine!  Greg’s got experience and he’s good with people, so he could teach a course in criminology or police work.  And, as I said, he’s not seriously considering it.  Just looking at what his options are _if_ he’s can’t go back to his old job.  Both Sam and I think he can, but there’s no harm in looking so he knows that if the worst happens, he’s not going to be dependent on your brother for the rest of his life.”

      “A fate I would wish on _no_ one.”

      “Mycroft would love it, though.”

      “He would be giddy as a schoolboy.  A fat _and_ fatuous schoolboy.  However… Lestrade has also been researching the preparation of a will.”

      “Yeah, he has.”

      “Is this another boring doctor-patient secret-sharing thing?”

      “Yes, for your information, it is.  Sort of.  It’s more of a friends secret-sharing thing, really.”

      “I am Lestrade’s friend.”

      “True, but we all have different types of friends.  Greg’s not as likely to talk to you about making a will as he would me or Sam.”

      “Sherrinford?”

      “Yes, Sherlock.  Greg does consider your brother a friend.”

      “Then I absolutely must be included in every conversation that could be in any manner termed a ‘friends thing,’ because I am a better and higher quality friend to Lestrade than the baboon.”

      “So, you want to argue the merits of a front-hook or back-hook bra?”

      “I do not wear a bra, so I fail to see how that is at all relevant.”

John smiled and shook his head.  Sherlock had come a long way in the time he’d known him, but there was still a ways to go.  And, frankly, John hoped he never changed much from the person he was now.

      “Yes, but women do.  See?”

      “No.”

      “Then how about we move on to another topic.”

      “Lestrade’s will.  Does that imply that he is concerned that his injuries will, somehow, prove fatal?”

      “No.  Not really.  A bit, maybe… the unexpected problem that comes from who knows where, but it’s more… Greg knows, now, that he’s going to die.”

      “We all are going to die.  Except, perhaps, if Mycroft will cease his ignoring of my requests to funnel tax funds into cryogenic research, so I may extend my lifespan and, therefore, usefulness to society, for an unlimited period of time.”

      “I won’t comment on the last part because it’s rather frightening, but yes, I know that everyone dies.  So does Greg.  But it’s a very different thing when you’ve actually had it happen or nearly-happen to you.  It’s not theoretical anymore.  And you know, absolutely know, that it can happen without any warning.  No lingering with some disease or withering from old age.  You could have some accident or misfortune and, in a blink of an eye, you’re gone.  You never think it will happen to you, but Greg knows, now, that it can.  And he wants to be prepared if it does.”

      “And it is not a sign of depression, then?”

      “No, it’s not, but it’s good that you recognized that it might be.  Sometimes it is.  People begin to dwell on the ‘what-if’ situations and that’s not good or they start to feel resigned that they’re early for the grave and that’s not good either.  And… people who are contemplating something… sad… may get their affairs in order to be kind to those they leave behind, but that’s not Greg’s situation.”

      “Lestrade has no affairs to, as you say, get in order.  He is a pauper.”

      “No, he’s not and, anyway, that’s not the only thing a will is for.  You can outline what you want your funeral to be like, for example.”

      “Mycroft would try to a have national day of mourning declared and mandate the wearing of black for a year for every citizen of Great Britain.”

      “You’re probably right, so that’s why Greg will, likely, spell out that he wants something simple and tasteful.”

      “Again, why he should be sharing this information with me and not Sherrinford.”

      “Ok, you do have a point about that.  It’s just that Sam wrote one once, so he had some ideas about how to go about it.”

Sherlock cocked his head and looked at John for clues so he didn’t have to ask the question.  Clues, of which, John was being completely rude in not providing.

      “Why would my brother write a will?”

      “He got married and had a child, Sherlock.  The same reason he got life insurance.  You do things differently when you have people in your life.  Try to make things as easy on them as possible when you pass.”

      “Do you have a will?”

      “Actually, I don’t.  But, that’s something I’m considering changing.”

      “Because of me?”

      “Yes.  I don’t have much in the way of money, but what I do have and the few possessions I care about, I want to make sure you get and not someone else.”

      “You are referring to your sister.”

John signed and nodded slowly.  He loved his sister, but… well, there was a great deal of water under that particular bridge…

      “She can have things that are relevant to her.  Pictures of us both, things that belonged to our parents… but the rest, I want you to have.  A will makes that possible.”

      “So would marriage.”

John wondered at exactly what point he fell asleep and begin dreaming.

      “Pardon?”

      “If we were married, wouldn’t your worldly goods become mine at the moment of your death?”

      “That sounds rather horrifying when you put it that way but, yes… I suppose they would.”

      “Then wouldn’t that be a more efficient solution?”

Was this dream a pleasant one or a nightmare?  It could go either way, really.

      “Sherlock, are you asking me to marry you?”

      “It seems a simpler thing than all of this will nonsense.”

Or, the idea of a will was bothering his partner more than the detective wanted to admit.

      “Well, if you’d asked me properly, then maybe…”

      “John Watson, will you marry me?”

Nightmare!  This was definitely a nightmare!

      “Sherlock… you don’t ask a bloke something like that unless you mean it.”

      “What makes you think I don’t?”

      “The fact we’ve never talked about it before, for one.”

      “We’ve never before talked about a will, yet you are considering one.”

      “Right.  _I_ am considering a will.  It’s not something that directly involves you.”

      “I am, now, considering one, too.”

      “You’re lying and that’s pathetic.”

      “Wrong.  I _am_ considering it and it is a foolish thing when I can simply marry you and dispense with the dusty and mostly-mummified solicitors Mycroft keeps on retainer.”

      “I am not going to marry you just so you don’t have to sit in a solicitor’s office for an afternoon!”

      “If you loved me, you would.”

      “I do love you, you prat!”

      “Then marry me.”

      “I would if you’d actually ask me because you loved me and not because of bone idleness!”

      “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t ask.  Do be sensible, John.  Now, since you have accepted my proposal…”

      “I did no such thing!”

      “You said you would marry me if I asked because I loved you and I did, so we shall tend to the matter in our next free moment.  Now, back to Lestrade…”

John stared dumbfoundedly at Sherlock, then realized this was probably the way he should have expected a marriage proposal from Sherlock Holmes to arrive and, strangely, it _was_ the most appropriate way for it to have happened.  Their history really left room for little else.

      “Before that… can I have a kiss to celebrate my newly-engaged status?”

      “Oh… yes, that is probably the correct thing to do.”

Sherlock leaned over and kissed John warmly on the lips, smiling a smile when it was done that John knew only he was privileged to see.

      “Good?”

      “Very good.  Thanks.”

      “You are welcome.  Now, because I am a far greater friend to Lestrade than Sherrinford…”

And off Sherlock went to state his demands for inclusion in friends things and be notified for all issues pertaining to the DI which John felt, wrongly, should be considered private.  Not that John heard any of it, of course.  He was far too busy indulging in the warm feeling of his life going in a very positive and happy direction with the man by his side.  Anyway, whether he paid attention or not wouldn’t matter to Sherlock.  His fiancé was nothing if not happy to carry on conversations all on his own…

__________

      “Ah… yes.”

Mycroft looked at the high-priority text and wasn't in the least surprised when Sam yanked the phone away and began a vaguely terrifying victory dance.

      “You owe me cash, Skinny.  Cold, hard American cash.”

Foul creature. However, never let it be said that Mycroft Holmes failed to pay his debts.

      “Very well.  It is true that I incorrectly predicted the timeline for their betrothal.”

      “And…”

      “And my assumption that John would be the asker of the question and not the asked was a poor one.

      “I’m now officially happy it’s taking me awhile to steal… I mean tidy… you socks, because I would not have missed this for the world.  You really do have some decent surveillance in their apartment, don’t you?”

      “The highest caliber currently available.  With Sherlock’s penchant for suspicion, I cannot do less.  Of course, I do ensure that he has something to find during his little searches.  The poor thing would be grossly disappointed if he believed my meddling ways had, in any manner, atrophied with age.”

      “You’re a good brother, Skinny.  And you’ll be a better one when I get my $7.48.”

      “Which amounts to the price of the toe of one of my lesser-quality socks.”

      “It’s a little scary you know that.”

      “Leave alone my socks, you blackguard!”

      “We’ve got more important things to worry about than socks, you prissy-pants!  We’ve got to practice looking surprised when they make their announcement, which won’t be after they tie the knot, most likely, but it pays to be prepared.”

      “You are correct.  Sherlock will pretend to treat this as a casual, matter-of-fact affair and John will indulge him, so they shall float nonchalantly into wedded bliss, failing utterly to scare either their partner or themselves away from the act.  Truly, it is the best possible situation.”

      “No question about it.  So, the great ignoring of their shittily-concealed glee will now commence.”

      “Agreed.  And not a word to the others, lest their joy frighten our little rabbits away from their happy event.  Now, may we return to our discussion from before the arrival of the good news?”

      “I have a sexual craving for your silky socks and want to make them mine.  Maybe, actually, I already have.  Have they felt a little stiff and crackly lately?”

      “Please help yourself to whatever you like.”

      “That’s what I admire about you, Mycie.  You’re such a generous and caring person.”

And, somehow, Mycroft knew his brother wasn’t joshing.  And he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

      “Now, find me a bag for your semen-stained socks.”

Disgusted.  He was feeling disgusted…


	23. Chapter 23

      “I have called you here today…”

      “Oh god.  My head already hurts.”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.”

      “My bladder, too.”

      “Your agony is duly noted.  Now, the reason I have asked you and John here this evening is…”

      “A threesome?”

      “You are hereby prohibited from uttering another word for the rest of this meeting.”

      “………………….”

      “You are, now, hereby prohibited from making hand gestures for the rest of his meeting.”

      “Mycroft, ignore Sam.  Sam, stop being an arse.  Now, why was I dragged away from my cozy chair, telly and surprisingly-peaceful Sherlock?”

      “Thank you, John.  As you know the so-termed stag party is looming large on the horizon and I must gain your opinion on a matter of extreme importance.”

      “Who’s in the middle of our sexy sandwich?”

      “CONVERSATION IS PROHIBITED!”

John wondered why he had ever thought Sherlock was the childish member of the Holmes family.

      “As you were saying, Mycroft?” 

      “Yes, back to important matters.  What I need to ascertain is whether or not Gregory shall be able to participate and in what capacity.”

      “Oh… that’s actually a good question.  And look, Sam’s raised his hand like a good little boy to answer.  Want me to call on him?”

      “Not at the moment, I believe.  This will go far more effectively and efficiently if his proverbial gag remains in place.”

      “Fine with me.  Anyway, I suppose I’d say it would depend on what you have planned.  Sherlock’s teeth are nearly broken from gnashing them since no one will let him in on the plan, so…”

      “Ah, how delightful that my brother has been presented with a puzzle that he cannot solve.  It is good for him, I’m certain.  Raises his metabolism and such.  Therefore, if you, Doctor Watson, are made privy to our plans, I must ask that you withhold the information from Sherlock to maintain our little mystery.”

      “He’s going to figure it out from the way I butter my toast in the morning, you know that don’t you?”

      “I have faith in you, John.  Now may I have your word?”

      “You have faith in me, but don’t trust me?”

      “Yes.”

Holmes family gatherings were just going to be a fantastic addition to his future social calendar…

      “I promise not to divulge the details of your fiendish plan.”

      “Excellent.  Now, as it stands…”

Mycroft spent the next few minutes outlining the basic itinerary of the stag party and John had to admit it was _not_ what he was expecting.

      “Of course, there are a few little extra items I am holding aside so that everyone might have some surprises to enjoy, however, the fundamental schedule should provide you with a framework from which to evaluate Gregory’s readiness.”

      “Ok… well, I admit I’ll have to do a little research and… oh god.”

Sam was waving his raised had in exactly the way John remembered _he_ used to do in primary school when the need to visit the loo was at a critical level.

      “Sherrinford, do you have anything productive to say or are you simply attempting to grace us with the cooling effect of your fanning efforts?”

      “I have something productive to say.”

      “Very well.  You have permission to speak.”

      “I already talked to a few people and did a little reading.  I think we’re good to go.”

      “Can I see what you read?”

      “Sure, doubting Johnmas.  Come back to my place and I’ll give you the journals.  If you want, I’ll give you the numbers of the folks I talked to, though you’ll have to pay long distance charges since and, since you’re a cheap little fucker, it might kill you.”

      “Very funny.  But I’ll definitely want to know, for myself, what to expect, so I’ll take all the resources I can get.”

      “But, you _do_ think Gregory will be able to manage.”

Sam had a pithy comment poised to fling, but bit it back, seeing the mix of hopefulness and concern in Mycroft’s eyes.  His baby brother was doing a phenomenal job of being a caregiver, a fiancé and keeping SPECTRE from filling everybody’s toilets with spy-camera wearing piranhas, so maybe it was best to give him a break.

      “As long as he, personally, takes it slowly and lets me swap out his wheelchair, I think we can get him through everything in one piece.”

      “Swap his wheelchair?   Whatever does that mean?”

      “Hold on a second.”

Sam pulled out his phone and tapped a few icons, handing the result to Mycroft and John to look at.

      “Smart.  Once in awhile you have a good idea, you useless American.”

      “Thanks, John.  Love you, too.”

      “A reclining wheelchair… that is very interesting.”

      “Don’t get too excited, Skinny, because they make you look pretty infirm, which means Greggy won’t be happy.  At least at first.  But it’ll let him rest and take the strain off his body when he needs it from sitting up for so long.  He’s doing good, really good, but for what you’re planning, that’s more time in a standard wheelchair than I’d like, unless we just leave him behind for some things and I know that’s not what you want.”

      “It is _not_ what would make Gregory happy.  Already his is worried that we shall leave him at home for whatever we shall do and it pains him greatly to think his worries shall come to pass.”

John scrolled through a few more of the wheelchair options and had to agree that Lestrade would balk strongly at being put in one, but this _would_ enable the DI to remain with them and not have to bow out early or, worse, not come at all.  Ultimately, he felt sure Greg would agree, but it might take some convincing.

      “With a close watch on his condition, a suitable chair and a little extra pain relief, I think he can do this.  I’ll take a page from Sam’s book and check a few things, but… it’s certainly within the realm of possibility.”

Both doctors decided to be polite and not comment on the small, gleeful smile that broke out for a microsecond on Mycroft’s face.

      “Very well.  I shall inform Gregory that, in all likelihood, he shall be able to accompany us for the festivities.”

      “And that’s John and my cue to leave.  We do _not_ want to be here when he rewards you for being his superhero.  Come on, John.  I’ll load you up with reading material and we can get loaded up while you read it.”

      “Best offer I’ve had all day.  Mycroft, nice to see you.  Try not to break Greg before his new wheelchair gets here, if you’d be so kind.”

John punched Sam on the arm to get him to stand up and made mental notes on the ease with which the oldest Holmes brother dragged himself off of the sofa in Mycroft’s study.  Still slow and careful, but no screaming or gushing of ooze so the idiot _should_ be making progress with his healing.  However, that would be verified the minute they set foot in Sam’s new flat.

      “Thank you, John.  I appreciate your efforts in this cause.  Sherrinford…. begone.”

Mycroft suffered Sam taking a piece of paper off of his desk and doodling an obscene picture which was made to dance in front of his face before Mycroft set it on fire with the lighter he’d been given by a rather prominent member of the royal family.

      “Firebug.”

      “Delinquent.”

      “Could one of you put that out?”

__________

      “Home sweet home.”

      “I have to admit, I don’t worry about tetanus or rabies like I did with your other flat.”

      “Yeah, my rats are very hygienic.”

      “Arthur named them yet?”

      “I think he’d make them little coats to wear in case this barn got chilly at night.”

Sam grabbed two beers from the kitchen as John took a seat on the very familiar sofa and began to browse the scattering of medical journals that littered the sofa table.

      “And this _is_ a barn, too.  I could carry Sherlock on my shoulders and those damn curls of his wouldn’t even sweep the ceiling.”

      “It’s good for you.  Lots of air to breathe.”

      “Air’s overrated.”

      “There’s that medical training you’re famous for.  Speaking of… have you been using that famous medical training to tend that broadsword wound of yours?”

      “You’re hoping for a peek, aren’t you?”

      “Hoping isn’t exactly the word I’d pick, since your liver-spotted skin is the last thing I want to see in my life.  But, I’d be a poor excuse for a doctor if I didn’t check on a mentally-impaired patient who couldn’t be expected to keep a proper eye on their health.”

      “Har de har har.  It’s got a few cotton balls taped over it, so it’s all good.”

      “Shirt up.”

      “I’m telling Babylock you said that.  He’ll be so jealous, that landlady of yours will toss your assess out because of his typhoonic tantrum.”

      “Then he can live with you and won’t that be lovely.”

      “You win.  Want my pants off, too?”

      “I’d rather keep my eyesight, thank you.”

Sam shrugged and set down his beer, then raised the corner of his shirt so John could inspect the cut in his side.  Which, once the bandage was removed, seemed to be doing… not atrociously.

      “See?  Told you I was fine.”

      “You actually took your antibiotics?”

      “They don’t taste bad if you chase them with rum.”

      “And you’ve kept this clean?”

      “Don’t sound so surprised.”

      “But I am.  I’m insanely surprised you’ve actually been doing something right for a change.”

      “What a pal.  Really, you’re the bee’s knees.  Oh, and fuck you with a watermelon.  One of those square ones they sell in Japan.”

      “Lovely.  But, I can pronounce you not at death’s door, so you won’t have to suffer my sincere medical concern any longer.”

      “Good, because your hands are cold.”

With his shirt returned to its former, more modest, condition, Sam slumped on the sofa and looked over what John had been reading.

      “I’ve got a few more in the bedroom, but it all boils down to the same thing.  Gregster is a go.”

      “The wheelchair won’t make him happy.”

      “Maybe not, but being left behind will make him even less happy, especially since Mycroft would stay behind with him.”

      “True.  But maybe we can deck the thing out like a hot rod and he’ll be happier wheeling around with his party hat and beer.”

“Besides, think of the lap dance he can have if he leans the thing back a little.”

      “I’m sure that’s right at the top of Mycroft’s approved activities list.”

      “Well, it should be.”

      “Oh dear… social life having a bit of a dry spell?”

      “Add a habanero pepper to that square watermelon going up your ass.”

      “Sexual frustration does make one tetchy.”

      “How am I supposed to find any way to _relieve_ that frustration working for Skinny night and day?  The man never leaves me alone!”

      “Phoning a lot, is he?”

      “Sherrinford, Gregory has hiccoughs.  Sherrinford, Gregory said his shirt itches.  Sherrinford, Gregory’s left big toe is slightly larger than his right.  Sherrinford, Gregory is suddenly craving bananas… I don’t speak to the man for thirty years and now I can’t get him to shut up!”

      “Be nice to Mycroft.  Having to deal with Greg all on his own, now.  That’s worse than keeping the communists at bay.”

      “Thank god he’s good at that because he’s a weenie when it comes to patient care.  I thought, fleetingly, that he and Greggy could do with an umbrella-carrying toddler of their own, but Mycie would drive everyone around him to suicide with all his dithering!”

      “Nah, they’d be good parents.  Once we cleared away the dead bodies, of course.”

      “Well, I’m not a pediatrician for reasons and I am not signing up to be the personal physician for that unholy brood.”

Speaking of…

      “Speaking of… when are you going back to work?”

      “Oh, that.  Honestly, I can’t say for sure.  They won’t want me around with this cesspit of infection strapped to my side, but when that’s done, I should slide back into things no problem at all.  That is, of course, if I’m not having to live with my phone taped to my ear or shuttle back and forth to Mycroft’s house every ten minutes because Greg’s starting to do more and it’s got baby bro scared to pieces.”

      “You could go private, you know.  There’s no need to keep a low profile anymore, for as much as you _ever_ did that, but you could easily get in with the posh crowd and earn a good living.”

      “Boring.  What’s interesting about gout and hangnails?  You know the kind of fun that comes through the door of the average hospital.  Why walk away from that?”

      “You sound like Sherlock.”

      “Which is good he’s got a greedy little bastard like you around to snatch those checks out of the clients’ fingers and sex him into taking the high-money cases, even if they don’t tickle his pickle.”

      “Yes, he is blessed.  But, as a friend, I do have to ask… _can_ you afford this place on your salary?  I know what you make, you useless excuse for a physician.”

      “It doesn’t entirely suck.”

      “No, it’s a good bit of cash, but this is more than a good bit of flat.”

      “True.  But, I catch some consulting work here and here that helps tide me over.  And I have a little stashed away for those pesky rainy days.  I’ve even written a few things that still bring in a few dollars, too, so I’ll manage.  Not royally, but I’ll get by.”

      “You can write?  I honestly didn’t think you could _spell_.”

      “Watch this.”

Sam pushed himself off the sofa and shambled over to a bookcase, from which he pulled out a book that was lying on its side on the bottom shelf.

      “See!”

John took the book and hoped his eyes weren’t bugging out when he got a good look at the cover.

      “This… I used this in medical school!”

      “Want me to autograph it?”

      “S. Harris.  It never occurred to me that you wrote this.”

      “That’s because I used big words and didn’t swear once.”

      “That’s probably the case.  You’ve written others, too?”

      “A few.  Nothing that brings me any real money, because, the royalties on them are pretty slim, but it’s a little monthly trickle I can count on to pay my cable bill or a few nights out with a friend.”

      “I am officially impressed.”

      “I am officially depressed.  I’m an old fart doctor working private patients and peddling my pompous books that nobody wants to read, even those who are forced to.  My life is sad.”

      “Can I keep this?  Sherlock would love it, actually.”

      “Sure.  I have one somewhere on abnormal anatomy and physiology he’d probably get a kick out of.”

      “I think I read that one, too.”

      “Thank you for buying me about one-and-a-half beers.”

      “You’re welcome.  Now how about you buy _me_ another since this one seems to have magically disappeared down my throat.”

      “Coming right up.  I think there’s a game on, if you want to check.”

Sam flicked the remote to John who caught it with a grin.

      “Football and a beer.  What a good date you are.”

      “Want to call Snotlock and see if he wants to learn what it means to be a real man?”

      “He’s got liver tonight.”

      “You don’t mean to eat, do you.”

      “Well, something’s going to eat it, but it won’t be him.”

      “He’s weird.”

      “Takes one to know one.”

      “That’s my line!”

      “I’ll send you a check.”

__________

      “Breakfast!”

Martin groaned and pulled the blankets over his head to make the rest of the world disappear.  Arthur didn’t quite understand mankind’s god-given right to sleep late when you have a day off of work.

      “Skip, I’m not sure if you realize this, but covering your head like that doesn’t make you invisible.  I mean, I can’t see your face, so if you were making a silly face I wouldn’t know it, but I can see that there’s a head, and a body, for that matter, under the blankets, so I know it’s you.  Well, I suppose it _could_ be someone else, but since you were in the bed when I woke up, I’m going to assume it’s still you and not someone who snuck in for a cozy sleep because they saw the bed was empty.”

      “I could be a ghost.”

      “Hmmm… well, that could be the case, I suppose, but I’m not sure if a ghost has enough… stuff… to make the blankets stay off the bed.  I think they’d fall through instead and just lay flat.  That’s rather sad, if you think about it.  Ghosts not being able to enjoy a toasty warm bed.  They’re dead _and_ they’re cold.  Or, maybe, they don’t feel the cold anymore.  I’ll have to find a book about that and do some reading.  Anyway, it’s breakfast time, so you really do need to get out of bed because I don’t see a way that you can eat your breakfast if the blanket is between your mouth and your food.”

Ghostly distraction wasn’t exactly as successful as hoped.  Try the London diversion.

      “You know who might be able to help you with your ghost problem?  Mycroft.  Or Sherlock.  They’ve probably had to deal with ghosts at some point and I know they’d be very happy to be your authorities on the subject.  Why don’t you ring them up and have a little chat on the subject?”

      “Brilliant!  I’ll try Mr. Sherlock first, because there’s lots of detective stories that have ghosts in them, so he must have met a few and he would have noticed everything about them, because that’s what detectives do and Mr. Sherlock is nothing if not a brilliant detective.”

Success!

      “So, come on, Skip.  Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes and you can eat while I talk to Mr. Sherlock about ghosts.  Then, we have to tidy up because Mum is coming for a visit and then we’ve got to get our haircuts.  Oh!  And we should likely start packing.”

Defeat!

      “Arthur, we don’t leave for London until tomorrow and it’s only for our stag night, so one change of clothes is quite enough.”

      “No, because we don’t know what we’re doing, so we have to be prepared!  We’ll need our coats and hats and mittens, our swim shorts, something nice and smart, something fun and comfy… it’s going to take awhile to pack.”

      “I’d wager if you ask Sherlock very nicely during your ghosts conversation, he’ll tell you what the plan is so we don’t have to carry everything we own to London.”

      “You would think that, wouldn’t you, but he doesn’t know.  He’s actually quite cross about that, too.  Doctor Watson’s even asked Doctor Sam to let Mr. Sherlock know so he won’t be so stroppy and a raincloud, but Doctor Sam wouldn’t do it.  And you know Douglas won’t say anything.  He’s being very sneaky about it all, which, I have to admit, is a very Douglas thing to do, but he usually says _something_ at _some_ point, even if it’s only for us to know how clever he’s being.”

Very true.  Douglas had been _intensely_ arrogant about his silence, too.

      “Then, I think it’s safe to assume we’ll have a lovely night at a pub or maybe some fun and games at Mycroft’s house.  All of which can be safely packed for tomorrow morning.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “We’ll be fine, Arthur.”

      “Alright, then.  Oh!  I nearly forgot my chili sauce!”

Arthur dashed out of the room, but not before grabbing the blanket and dragging it off of Martin who lay there for a moment wondering if a helpful ghost would come and cuddle with him for warmth.  His fiancé was an evil man when the mood struck…

__________

      “Hurray!  Mum’s here!  She’s very early, but she’s here!”

Martin marveled at how Arthur could be excited to see his mother since his mother was (a) living less than a mile from them (b) saw them nearly every day and (c) was Carolyn.  However, the knock at the door never failed to put a large smile on his fiancé’s face.

      “Oh… Skip?”

At the tone, Martin shot out of his chair in the kitchen and sped to the front door only to gulp loudly and hold Arthur’s hand.  Four police officers standing at your front door was never a comforting thing.

      “Um… yes?  May I help you?”

      “Mr. Crieff?”

      “I… I am.”

      “Mr. Shappey?”

      “That’s me.  But you can call me Arthur.  ‘Mr.’ is good for people like Mr. Sherlock and Mr. Birling, because they’re… well, they’re very mister-y, but I don’t think that fits me very well.  Skip, what do you think?”

Martin thought that he should be finding the number of a good solicitor, actually, but refused to let go of the hope that this was a fund-raising call for a widows and orphans fund.

      “I think Arthur is good for now, love.  So… how may we help you?”

      “We need you to come with us, sirs.”

Bad day for the widows and orphans.  Along with him and Arthur.

      “And… may I know the reason why?”

Asking questions in a rather wheezy and querulous voice wasn’t presenting the picture of strength and confidence Martin had hoped, but at least no one had put him in cuffs, yet.  This had to be something Douglas did.  Or Sam.  Either of them would happily embroil any number of innocent victims in their cons and schemes.

      “In due time, sirs.”

Arthur squeezed Martin’s had tightly and Martin squeezed back in sympathy.  Nodding, he asked a moment to get their jackets and lock the house before being escorted to what appeared to be a police van and seated in the rear, along with two of the police constables as escorts.

      “Skip, they do know we’re allowed to live in Mycroft’s little house, right?  We’re not stealing his food or anything.  Really, we promise we’re not doing anything wrong.”

Martin wrapped an arm around his fiancé and slid him over slightly on the bench seat.

      “Don’t worry, Arthur.  Everything’s going to be fine.  I’m sure it’s all some mistake and we’ll be home before you know it.”

      “I hope so.  Though… being arrested could be a lot of fun.  I’ve seen it on the telly and in the films and they take your fingerprints and you get your picture taken and it might not actually be bad, really.”

      “No, being arrested is bad, no matter how much you want your picture taken.”

      “Oh.”

      “When we get home I’ll take your picture, if that makes you happy.”

      “Brilliant!  Oh, you can do it now, with my phone!”

Arthur pushed the phone into Martin’s hands, then squeezed between the two somber-looking policemen on the other side of the van and smiled brightly for his photo.  Which Martin took after a very apologetic and ‘please don’t add this to the charge sheet’ smile of his own.  And he made a conscious effort not to press the button on Arthur’s phone that would bring the wrath of Mycroft down on the local police service.  He was going to be Arthur’s husband in a few days and he needed to take care of these things himself.  Once, at least, he found out what all of _these things_ actually were…

__________

When the police van came to a halt, Arthur and Martin held hands again and waited until the door was opened and they were motioned to exit.  Onto the airfield.  In front of a plane.

      “Marty and Artie!  Glad you could make it!”

Martin and Arthur whipped around to find Sam standing behind them, along with Mycroft, John, Sherlock and Douglas.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “Kidnapping you, of course.  Come on and get on the plane.  Greg’s waiting and he’s a complete shit when he’s being ignored.”

Arthur clapped his hands, started laughing, and ran up the steps into the plane, leaving Martin to glare at the kidnapping party and the police constables who were beginning to laugh, also, and thank Mycroft for the envelopes he was slipping them.

      “Why are you kidnapping us?”

      “Even _you_ should not be able to deduce the reason, Martin.”

      “Well, thank you, Sherlock, but I… oh.  Oh no…”

      “Happy Stag Party, Martin.  Don’t worry, Sam and I are here to keep everyone alive for the entire thing.  Hopefully.”

Thank you, John, for siding with the enemy.  And, of course, there was Mycroft.  Looking smug. Bastard.

      “The stag party isn’t until tomorrow night.”

      “We lied.”

      “Oh my!  What a surprise!  The Holmes family lies.  Thank you for that piece of information, Mycroft.”

      “Good heavens, Sir.  One would think we were depriving you of your blanket and bottle with all of the fussing we are being subjected to.”

      “Oh ha ha.  What a funny man you aren’t, Douglas.  Anyway… we’re supposed to meet Carolyn later and…”

      “Dear Mrs. Knapp-Shappey and her companion are enjoying the myriad of delights that London can provide as my little way of saying thank you for missing your rather vital rendezvous and continuing to indulge our occasional bouts of whimsy.”

      “You bought off Carolyn again.  Wonderful.  Nice hotel?”

      “Very.”

      “Car and driver?”

      “Of course.”

      “Tickets to whatever she wants to do and reservations for whatever restaurant she wants?”

      “Most certainly.”

      “Something that our dear Alpha Dog could not forsake for love or money.  Now, might we actually make a start upon our own luxury-grade entertainment?  I am more than a little bored standing on the tarmac, listening to the shrill call of the wild Crieff when it has been flushed from its hedge.”

      “I, also, am bored.”

      “See!  Even Dupin agrees with me and that is as rare as a sighting of Halley’s comet.”

Martin was about to continue his protest, then it occurred to him… why?  _Why_?  He was being kidnapped for his stag night to celebrate his marriage to the most amazing man in the world.  It was rather foolish to protest something as delightful as that…

      “Fine.  But if we run into Carolyn and Herc in London, don’t expect me to curtail my debauchery for their sake.”

      “Oh Martin… I really do not think that will be a problem.  Now, shall we?  My dear Gregory is surely ready to depart.”

Mycroft waved Martin up the steps and the captain took a breath before taking his first step towards his stag party.  Fingers crossed that Mycroft hadn’t hired out Buckingham Palace for the night…

__________

      “Greg!”

      “Arthur!”

The steward ran forward and carefully hugged the man who was reclining in one of the airplane’s aisle seats.

      “I’m so happy you could come!  Of course, it’s a bit silly for you to fly all of this way since we’re just going back to London, but I’m glad you did.  You got to help kidnap us!”

      “John suggested the idea and Mycroft thought it would be amusing after that escapade of you and him on the bridge.”

      “That was brilliant!  It wasn’t fun that Skip was angry at me, but I got to act like I was in a film, which was positively… well, brilliant is the only word for it.  So, what are we going to do tonight?”

      “I don’t know, really.  Mycroft, Sam and Douglas have kept that a big secret, but they got me special wheels so I can stay with you all night and not have to go home like an old man.”

      “Wow!  They must be very special, because I expect we’re going to have lots of fun and it might be a little difficult for you to have as much fun as the rest of us for the entire night if you didn’t have a bit of help.”

And what a bit of help it was.  He’d thrown Mycroft and John out of his makeshift sitting room when they’d shown it to him and pouted the rest of the day like a petulant child, but… after Mycroft had tried to talk to him for the eighth time, he’d actually listened and had to admit that it made sense.  Even if he did look pitifully weak and fragile in it.  Which wasn’t being fair to the people who had to use those all the time, but it didn’t make him feel any less terrible about being in one.  It did ride well, though.  And, if he was forced to admit it, was actually comfortable even after long periods, which would have killed him in his other chair.  Besides, it was only for one night and then he’d never have to see it again.  Fingers crossed…

      “It’s got to be seen to be believed and that’ll happen soon enough.”

      “I can’t wait.  And Greg…”

      “Yes?”

      “WEDDING!”

Arthur broke into a dance and Lestrade laughed as hard as his chest would let him.  Oh yes, tonight was going to be a lot of fun, even with his ridiculous chair…

__________

      “Mycroft.”

      “Martin?”

      “Why can’t we look out of the windows?”

      “Sherrinford is sensitive to the sunlight.”

      “Sam, is that a lie?”

      “Please don’t make me wear sunglasses indoors.  Only assholes do that.”

      “As I thought.  A lie.  Splendid.”

      “But, Skip… we see the clouds and sky all the time, which, I admit, is absolutely brilliant, but this way, I can pay more attention to other things, like playing games or drawing pictures or having a chat.  You have to admit I sometimes have a little trouble with those things if there are very interesting clouds to watch.”

Arthur once was transfixed by what he claimed was a perfect replica of Hogwarts formed from a few thunderclouds and they’d had to physically remove him from the cockpit to break the spell.

      “Fine.  I just…”

      “Hard not being in control, isn’t it, Martin?”

      “That is not a problem from which I suffer, First Officer Richardson.”

      “My point is made.”

__________

      “Mycroft.”

      “Martin?”

      “When are we landing?”

      “When the wheels touch the ground, I suspect.”

      “I, also, want to know the answer to that.  Being condemned to close proximity to you and Sherrinford with no possibility of escape was not on the list of possibilities I approved of participating in for the evening.”

      “Your brotherly love warms my heart, Sherlock.”

      “Fuck off diaper-baby.”

      “John!”

John shared a sympathetic look with Greg and ignored his… husband’s… tantrum.  They’d walked into the register office and, well, he’d thought you had to give notice first but apparently you didn’t, because as soon as they’d filled out the paperwork, they’d been hustled into another room where he and Sherlock stood for a small ceremony and that was that.  No muss and no fuss, just as if Mycroft had waved his magic wand and given them the perfect wedding.  And it _was_ perfect, too.  Maybe not for other people, but for him and Sherlock… perfect.   And, afterwards, they’d left to work on an extortion case that Greg had seen was sent their way.  A typical day, except for the ring he was now carrying in his pocket.  The nice dinner and mind-blowing sex that capped everything off was just icing on the cake. Soon, when the time was right, he could actually spread the news of his good fortune and he planned on spreading it good and thick…

      “Sherlock, you can manage being with your brothers for awhile and not feel your head exploding.”

      “I most certainly cannot!  It is now your fault if my brain liquefies and my usefulness to humanity is obliterated.”

There was nothing on Earth better than being married to the person you loved…

__________

      “And how are you, my beloved.”

Stressed, worried, feeling pain…

      “Great!”

Lying as abysmally as ever…

      “Someday you shall rise to great heights as a liar, Gregory Lestrade, given the monumental amount of practice you are acquiring of late.”

      “Slightly less than great!”

      “There.  Was that so hard?”

      “Yes.”

      “Yet you did the job masterfully.  Fear not, for I have your pain medication in my pocket.”

      “Don’t want it.”

      “Want and need are two very different things.”

      “Come on, Mycroft… I’d actually like to enjoy myself a little with the rest of you lot.  Get a bit tipsy and embarrass myself.  You know, be a proper participant in a bachelor party.”

Mycroft stroked Lestrade’s hair and gave him a small peck on the cheek.

      “I assure you that you will have ample opportunity to do just that, however you may still enjoy the revelry and be comfortable at the same time.  Here… and do not force me to inspect your mouth to verify swallowing.”

Lestrade took the pill out of Mycroft’s hand and sighed.  Then called himself an arse for sighing.  They’d not left him behind.  He’d been so worried they’d pooh-pooh him coming along, but, instead, they’d gone to a lot of trouble to make it happen.  Sighing was a poor thank you for all of that hard work and if he had to be the sober one of the party, it was worth it.  Especially since that pain pill looked especially attractive right now…

      “I’ll take it, but you can still check that I swallowed.  You can use your tongue to probe every nook and cranny.”

      “Such a wicked man.  Fortunately, I admire that in a person.”

Greg grinned and took his pill, washing it down with juice concoction Arthur had prepared for him when he’d mentioned he was thirsty.  It might be a bit… glowing… but it was actually very tasty.

      “Very good.  Are you… should I ask if you are still nervous about the flight?”

      “I won’t say I didn’t have a bad moment or two when we took off and I’m sure I’ll have a few more when we land.  For now, I’m ok.  Just stay away from any turbulence, ok?”

      “I made that perfectly clear to the flight crew and the air-traffic control personnel guiding us towards our destination.”

      “Which we should have met quite awhile ago.”

      “Is that a Detective Inspector’s analysis of the situation?”

      “Just tell me what we’re going to do tonight and you can avoid the handcuffs, Mr. Holmes.”

      “Oh, then I believe I shall choose to refuse your request.”

      “I’m the luckiest man the world has ever known.”

      “Yes, I believe I agree.”

__________

      “WHEN ARE WE LANDING!”

      “Ah, the call of the Great Detective.  Between it and the wild Crieff, nature trembles from their mighty roar.”

      “Piss off, Douglas!”

      “I gladly await the day you are incarcerated for your economic villainy, Mr. Richardson.”

      “Dear me, and, for this, I awoke from my nap.”

Or, rather, from his quiet and highly interesting conversation with Mycroft concerning the rather tatty, but effective, network of connections he’d developed over the years.  Connections that had eyes and ears and were not afraid to use them.  For the right price.  And, of course, as mediator for these little transactions he’d charge but a pittance.  Of course, one man’s pittance is another man’s week of Wagyu beef… 

      “And, to answer your question, Sherlock.  I believe the answer is…”

Mycroft made a grand show of checking his watch and smiling at Lestrade before continuing.

      “… very shortly.  In fact, I would expect to hear the announcement at any moment.”

      “Hurray!  PARTY!”

Martin’s headache began anew and he could only hope Mycroft hadn’t had the pilot meander about for awhile as the tents for the petting zoo animals and the full-body finger painting arena were being erected.  For as much as he hated stag parties on GERTI, a simple night of drinking and behaving like idiots seemed the far kinder option, in the long run…


	24. Chapter 24

      “Ah, I believe we are able to disembark.  Wasn’t that a lovely flight?  It is quite alright to release my hand now, my dear.  Or… do continue to hold it as I am greatly enjoying your… hearty… demonstration of affection.”

Yes, his beloved apparently needed a few moments to calm down from their landing.  There had been, perhaps, the smallest amount of bump and bounce, which did not sit well with the man sporting additional scarring from another aircraft landing that had not faded, in the least, from his memory.

      “We were in this sardine tin for an eternity!  If we have not landed in the darkest jungles of Africa, I shall be greatly surprised.”

      “Africa!  That’s not near London, Mr. Sherlock, and I would know because I've flown to both and can, therefore, be considered somewhat of an expert on how far apart they are.”

      “We are _not_ in London, Arthur.  If you have yet to discern the fact, Meddlesome Mycroft has ported us to some unknown land, probably as part of one his ridiculous international connivings.”

Arthur scrunched his face tightly as he considered this new information.

      “We’re not in London?  I have to admit that we were in the air for a _very_ long time, but I just thought that was part of the party!  I mean, we’ve gotten to play games and eat snacks and have a brilliant time, so I thought we were just taking a nice plane ride so we could have fun in the air and not on the ground, which we do a lot, so this would be different and special for our party.”

Mycroft nodded at Sam, who broke into a grin and began to rifle through an overhead bin.

      “Though it is extremely painful, Arthur, dear boy, I must admit that Sherlock is correct.  We have made a slight diversion from our purported destination.  However, I am confident you will not find the change of plans an unhappy one.”

Martin glared at Mycroft because he knew, he just knew, that his life had now taken a _decidedly_ unhappy turn.  Mycroft’s fingers on _any_ plan never worked to his advantage.  Except when it did, but he was not going to think about those pesky exceptions right now.  This was _his_ stag party, so he was allowed to be as petty as he wished.

      “Well then, I’m still going to say HURRAY! because no matter where we are I know this is going to be brilliant.  With you and Doctor Sam and Douglas in charge, it _has_ to be brilliant.  There’s really no other option.”

Sherlock and Martin shared a look that verified their agreement on this particular issue, which in no manner coincided with Arthur’s assessment.  However, given their prisoner of war status, they were there for the duration.

      “And take a look at these, buckaroo!  Official stag night headgear for you and your sweetie-pie.”

Arthur’s ‘BRILLIANT!’ and Martin’s pained moan harmonized surprisingly well as Sam displayed the headgear he’d designed for event.  Which was not done in revenge for his own homemade chapeau.  Not a bit.  Maybe a little.

      “These are… oh, there’s really no other word than brilliant, is there?  Cowboy hats!  And how did you know that Skip looks very handsome in green?  Skip, put on your hat so everyone can see how handsome you are in green.”

Nobody looked good in cartoon-quality Christmas green, especially when the entire hat was covered in said-colored sequins, except for the rhinestones that spelled out GROOM.  And the feathers.

      “Yes, Captain Crieff.  Do don your festive headwear so that we may bask in the laser-intense reflections of the cabin lights radiating from your gift.”

Mycroft smiled gently at the nonsense and praised the distraction for its effects on his fiancé.  One day he might regain the use of his fingers from when his dear Gregory’s worry crushed them to dust during their landing, but that day was a long way away.  At least, now they were released from his bear-trap grip and he could begin the healing process.

      “Thank you, Douglas, as always.”

      “Always ready to help.  Now, if Arthur would but don his hat and…”

A few snaps of his fingers earned Douglas the second part of the couple’s party wardrobe from John.  A pair of hat-matching blindfolds.

      “No!  No, I finally have to put my foot down…”

      “But, Skip, blindfolds mean surprises and brilliant blindfolds like these mean brilliant surprises!  You have to wear yours or I’ll be the only one surprised and it won’t be as much as being surprised _with_ you!”

      “Come on, Martin.  You won’t feel so bad when you see what I have to ride around in all day.  I’m a parade float all on my own, so I could use a little company.”

Now, Greg was fortunate enough to be the recipient of Martin’s glare, but Martin suddenly lost his irritation as it was replaced with guilt over the fact that Greg looked overstressed from the landing, even though it wasn’t _him_ piloting the plane this time, and let the glare fade from his face.

      “Can’t we just close our eyes instead?”

      “Skip, you’re just upset because you had to fly and not pilot the plane, so I can forgive you being a bit of a raincloud, but I think I have to say that we _are_ going to wear our blindfolds because they’re absolutely amazing and they’re going to make our surprise more… surprisey.”

And there was no universe in which Martin was going to be able to continue to stand in the way of the very-adamant will of Arthur Shappey in matters concerning hats and blindfolds, so the pilot simply snatched his from John’s hand and began to tie it around his eyes.

      “HURRAY!  My turn!”

This time, John got up and did the honors, ignoring Sherlock’s snort of disdain.  His husband was going to have a good time whether he liked it or not.  Or he just might find out about another hat that Sam had made to be worn by anyone deemed, as the idiotic American termed it, a party pooper.  Sherlock would hate the pooper hate.  Actually, hate would be too kind a word.  This was really going to be fun… 

      “Brilliant!  I can’t see a thing!  Oh… how do I get off the plane?”

      “That’s for the rest of us to worry about.  Sherlock, you and Douglas take Martin.  Me and John will handle Arthur.  Mycroft and the pilot who gave Greg’s ass a once-over when we brought him on board will handle the invalid, so the guy can get a little grope bonus with his paycheck.  We reconnoiter on the ground whenever we get there.  Capisce?”

      “Oh good lord, he’s gone American again.  Come along, Dupin, let us escort Sir off of the plane before Sherry embarks on a banjo serenade, while smoking his corn cob pipe.”

Sherlock groaned painfully, but, remembering John’s promise that every time he needed one of Arthur’s ‘little chats’ would mean three evenings of sex where he wasn’t allowed orgasm, got out of his seat and took one of Martin’s arms for the trip down the steps.

      “I’m next!  Though, if Doctor Sam is going to play the banjo, I really don’t mind waiting because that would be brilliant and… oh, I’m walking.”

Sam and John got Arthur moving, leaving Mycroft to share a kiss with Lestrade and gaze into his lover’s slowly-recovering eyes.

      “And we begin, my dear.  If you choose, there is still time to ensconce you in a splendid hotel suite while…”

      “Nope.  I can’t go to my grave saying I missed the stag of a lifetime!  Besides, I got a look at the pooper hat and that is not going on my head for any reason.”

      “The… oh dear lord, I cannot bring myself to say it.”

      “And you won’t want to bring yourself to _wear_ it, either.  It’s very appropriately named, though how he found some in a rainbow color is something I really don’t want to know.  Just keep smiling and you’ll avoid that fate worse than death.  Now, get me off the plane?”

      “Of course, my beloved.  Just a moment.”

Mycroft moved off to gain assistance and Lestrade happily watched _his_ arse as he walked away.  There _would_ be groping this evening, there was no doubt about it.  And, who knows, maybe that tank of a reclining wheelchair might come in handy after all…

__________

      “How are we already in a car?  It takes an age to get through an airport nowadays!  WHERE ARE WE!”

      “Martin, you might want to remember who made the travel arrangements for this little party.”

      “Skip, Greg’s right.  Mycroft is in charge of London and probably England and maybe more, so I don’t think things like luggage searches and having to answer questions that I’m not always sure of the answers to is much of a concern.  And Greg, do you need one of your little pills?  You sound a bit like you do and it’s ok if you do because we’re here to have fun and you can’t have fun if your holes hurt.”

      “Something I tell Mycroft all the time, Arthur, which is why I get the best lube money can buy.”

      “See!  I… wait.  I think that was actually a bit naughty.”

Greg suffered a tiny swat from Mycroft and a finger-wagging from Arthur, but kept his smug grin.  This was a party after all!  Though, yes, one of his little pills wasn’t the worst possible idea.  Getting off the plane was nearly lethal and, though the car had been chosen for the most comfortable ride, it wasn’t the easiest experience.  It must be said, however, that the police escort they were getting to shorten the drive time was certainly a nice touch.

      “Maybe a bit.  But you’re supposed to be a bit naughty on your big night!  I bet Sam’s being blisteringly naughty in the other car, getting everyone in there all ready for the fun and frolics.

Which was why Mycroft specifically put his incorrigible brother, _both_ of them, in the second car of their convoy.

      “That’s true.  Maybe someone will write it down so I can read it later.  I don’t want to miss anything!”

Though Mycroft had ensured that Arthur would receive an edited video version of their activities and a large quantity of professionally-produced photographs, clandestinely taken, to document the event.  Of course, certain individuals of their party would find themselves more highly edited than others.

      “And you shall not, dear boy.  In fact, I believe we are soon to reach the terminus of this leg of our journey.  Are you ready to begin?”

Arthur’s YES! echoed through the car and made even the driver break a smile.

      “Very well, then.  When we come to a stop, the others will see you out and then we shall assist Gregory into his wheelchair.  I expect we shall be quite active for a time and he shall surely benefit from its support.

Arthur vibrated with excitement and, when the car stopped, practically fell out of the vehicle opening the door to wait being helped out.  Luckily, the riders in the second car predicted this and were out of their own ride quickly to extract the happy couple.

      “My dear, are you ready?”

      “Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Mycroft smiled at his fiancé and gave him a soft kiss on his cheek.

      “Very good.  And you shall, I think, be grateful for this particular measure of assistance for this is but the first stop on our excursion.  I do hope you are prepared for an extended celebration.”

      “Party until dawn?  That’s what I’m here for!”

      “Dawn?  How… amusing.”

      “What?  Mycroft… no, come back here…”

Mycroft slid out of the car and waited while the driver and John got the wheelchair out of the boot, set it up and checked that it made the trip in good shape before carefully helping Lestrade out of the car and into his new mode of transportation.  Of course, a little extra support in this would have been nice, John thought, but his husband was far too busy processing their destination and deciding if it was better or worse than he had feared.

      “I believe we are now ready to begin.  Arthur, in deference to Martin’s more tender sensibilities, I suggest we leave the hats and blindfolds in the car until we return, when you may don them again for passing viewers to see.”

      “That’s a good idea.  Skip, did you hear that?  Mycroft’s concerned about your sensibilities.  Isn’t that nice?”

Martin voiced his answer with a gesture that Sam very much appreciated as he removed the hats and tossed them in the car.  Then, in time with Douglas, they removed the blindfolds and soaked up Martin and Arthur’s surprised squeaks.

      “The… the National Air and Space Museum?  We’re in Washington, D. C.”

Martin was practically salivating at the sight and Arthur was having to be gently held back from running forward to start hugging the exhibits.

      “I thought it a good starting point for our experience.”

Both Arthur and Martin stared at Mycroft and were desperate to sort out the ‘starting point’ part of the sentence, but Greg’s ‘let’s go, for god’s sake!’ put an end to that.  Well, almost.  First, Arthur had to have another surprised squeak over the DI’s large, black and rather high-tech chair.

      “It looks like something an alien would sit in!”

Which actually made Greg feel better about the whole thing.

      “And, for your information, Arthur, it reclines, just like my chair at home.”

      “Brilliant!  This is going to be the best party ever!”

This time Arthur did run forward and Sherlock took it upon himself to give chase.  Not that the idea of some form of tethering system had been discussed, though it _had_ , the decision to let Fate take care of wayward sheep was chosen in the spirit of the party’s bonhomie.  And, of course, everyone knew Mycroft had invited a number of unseen guests that would be with them at all times who could help shepherd lost sheep back to the fold very easily… 

      “Martin, shall we follow your fiancé?”

      “We… we really… how long do we get to spend here?”

      “Oh, quite some hours, with breaks, of course, for refreshment.  Pay it no mind if you hear the announcement for closing, for that, in no manner applies to us.  And, how generous was the director to permit us full access to the collections.  I believe we have staff at our disposal to take us through… well, whatever historical items might perk your interest.  Here, you might find this useful…”

Mycroft received a thick sheaf of papers from the driver and handed them over to his cousin.

      “I have taken the liberty of organizing things a tad for you for the sake of expediency.  Whatever you see of their collection that you would like to view, it shall be made available.  Oh, and you will find waiting a guide who will be happy to discuss with you anything you find of interest during our stay.  Now, shall we begin?”

Martin stared at the papers in his hand, scrolling his eye over the vast list of… everything.  Documents, artifacts, photographs, blueprints… it was a dream come true…

      “Thank you, Mycroft.  Truly, thank you.  This is…”

As Martin wiped away a small tear, Mycroft patted him gently on the shoulder and Sam linked their arms to start walking.

      “You are very welcome.  And do not fear that I have focused solely on _your_ interests in this.  As I said, this is only our first stop.”

Sam marched Martin away before he could start digging and Mycroft allowed John a moment to verify Greg’s comfort before pushing the wheelchair towards the entrance.

      “This is remarkable, love.  Martin’s about to have a breakdown he’s so happy.”

      “Is this not the purpose of this celebration?”

      “It most certainly is.  And, I have to admit, I’m dying to explore, myself.  This is supposed to be impressive.”

      “Then explore we shall.  And, of course, I will purchase for you a souvenir, as is traditional for visiting such a venue.”

      “It’s going to be gaudy and horrid, isn’t it?”

      “Is that not also traditional?”

      “This is going to be great!”

__________

Though the party attendees attempted for about three minutes to stay as a unified group, subgroups quickly formed and diverged, taking separate trajectories as they investigated the museum.  What Sherlock quickly discovered was that Mycroft had employed not only a guide for Martin, but, apparently, a number of helpful staff, as he noticed each subgroup of their party being quietly followed by a smartly uniformed employee who was prepared to answer questions, offer suggestions, or point the way to the nearest bathroom.  While that was not entirely surprising, what _did_ offer interest was that _his_ guide was quite knowledgeable about such topics as explosive decompression, the physiological effects of both space and terrestrial flight on the human body, avenues of evidence to prove death by plane crash, incidences of plane crash being used as a tool for murder and a host of other things that he could not deny sparked his interest.  That they offered to provide him with copies of all relevant research reports and access to several restricted databases was also… useful.

For John’s part, the spectacle was its own reward.  The Sherlock spectacle, that is.  The detective would never admit to having fun, but he was nearly glowing with the wealth of new information and it quickly became apparent that every exhibit they examined had some connection to an issue sufficiently morbid to keep Sherlock entertained.  The museum was fantastic, too.  So many things to see and all of them worth lingering over.  Luckily, Sherlock was happy to leave him behind when he wanted to spend more time at a certain location.  Thinking back, John couldn’t say he was unhappy with how their wedding took place, because he wasn’t, but a stag party of their own might have been nice.  Perhaps on their anniversary they could rectify that fact.  Mycroft was proving to be quite the party planner, after all…

Sam and Douglas were finding that being the elder statesmen, as usual, had its rewards.  In so many cases for the things they saw, this was a stroll down memory lane and there was nothing better than sharing that with someone who had the same memories.  So much they had seen, read about, watched on television… and didn’t the young ladies find that wisdom and maturity highly intriguing.  Intriguing enough to accompany them for a little drink or nibble in the special refreshments room Mycroft had ordered set up for their use.  Which the ladies also found intriguing.  Intriguing enough for an exchange of phone numbers to be used in the next event of trips across the briny blue by either party…

Martin knew this was his stag night.  He knew he was supposed to be attached to Arthur’s side, showing to the world the fabulous prize he had won.  However, he couldn’t muster a bit of care that Arthur was running wild through the exhibit area and behind the scenes, tailed closely by his personal guide, intersecting with every member of their group on a minute by minute basis and soaking up the gestalt experience as only an unbridled Arthur could do.  That was absolutely, positively wonderful, because it gave him all the time he needed to focus.  To study every detail, read every word… to talk to his own tour guide who _liked_ to talk.  Loved to talk, in fact, about planes and flying and aviation history and theory… and happily chatted about whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted.  It was _heaven_ … and he had hours ahead of him to enjoy it…

__________

      “And there he goes again.”

      “I am reminded of a pinball machine where, in this case, Arthur is the ball and our family appears to be the bumpers.”

      “Look at you, love, showing your pop culture knowledge.”

      “Are you proud?”

      “Very proud.  And _very_ glad we brought this chair.  I may look terrible in it, but I have to say, it’s making this a fantastic experience.”

After the first hour, Greg realized he had to give in and ask to be reclined or he’d have to take Mycroft up on the offer of a hotel room and do it immediately.  And, once he realized that everyone in the museum wasn’t pointing and staring, he relaxed into the experience and let the chair do its job of keeping him comfortable and mobile.  Which was good because he wouldn’t have wanted to miss any of this!  There was so much to see!  And Mycroft could talk about it all.  Knowing him, he had a research packet prepared so he could study in advance.  They seemed to be the only pair moving around without their own tail shadowing their every move…

      “I am delighted to hear that, truly, I am.  I know you were not content with the idea, but if it is providing the intended benefit, then I am happy for it.”

      “It is, so I expect to be able to keep up with the rest of you lot for the rest of the day.  You said we had another stop after this one?”

      “Gregory Lestrade, are you, as they say, fishing for information?”

      “I’m a cop!  That’s what we do.”

      “True, however, I believe I shall decline to reveal my intentions so you may experience the various surprises yet to arrive.”

      “Various. That means more than one.”

      “What a nosy individual you are, Detective Inspector.”

      “It’s a talent.  So, are we going to have lunch while we’re here?”

      “Most certainly.  I have a space established for our use and there is a lovely lunch buffet waiting for us.  I take it you are ready to partake?”

      “I am ready to partake.  Any booze?”

      “Will wine suffice?”

      “Wine will suffice.  Then we tackle more of the museum?”

      “That we shall.  Our flight does not leave until this evening, so we have quite the expanse of time to use as we please.  If you prefer, we can also take a car to a different museum or sightseeing opportunity in the city.”

      “Another day, perhaps.  Right now, half of the fun is watching Arthur bounce around, Martin float about in shock, Sherlock interrogate his new friend and the oldsters set out their lines for pretty young ladies.  John’s the only one, besides us, who seems to actually be a normal museum patron.”

      “Our familial unit is a most interesting one and I, for one, am ecstatic for the fact.”

      “Me, too.  Now, food?”

      “Of course.”

      “Want a ride?”

      “Are you again being naughty?”

      “Maybe.  Actually, no, I was being silly, but now that you bring it up I like your idea better.”

      “Later, my dear.  When we might be assured of a measure of privacy.”

      “This is the best stag party ever!”

      “I do my best.”

__________

In the end, Sam and Douglas had to carry Martin out of the museum because his thirty ‘just one more’ had already put them a tad behind schedule.

      “Put me down!”

      “Not before we have you inside the car, Sir, as I have full faith that you will sprint back into your newfound Nirvana the instant your feet touch the ground.”

      “I have to say, I think Douglas is right, Skip.  You do look rather sprinty at the moment.  But, that’s ok, because I want to sprint back, too, and see all the things again because this was absolutely brilliant!  I got to see everything and Sara was so nice and answered all my questions and I asked a lot of questions, but she never got tired or wandered off for a little sit.  And the food was yummy, too!  I’ve never had as much fun at a museum in my life!”

Sam and Douglas wrestled Martin into one of the cars, then made a show of standing against both rear doors, so all Martin could do was look out and pout.

      “Round 2, Mycie?”

      ‘I believe, Sherrinford that it is certainly time for that to begin.  If you will, gentlemen?  It is only a short flight to our next destination, but do take the opportunity to indulge in a small nap, if you choose.  Gregory, I am singling you out for special attention in this matter.”

Lestrade’s rude noise, was seconded by Sam, who high-fived the DI before helping him out of his chair, so the driver could replace it in the boot, along with the multitude of bags of souvenirs they’d acquired during their stay.

      “Gregory, do behave.  Now, shall we begin?”

Arthur leapt into the car with Martin and, as the others filed back into the second vehicle, Mycroft carefully helped Lestrade back into theirs.

      “Still no hints, love?”

      “Not a one.  Though I do hope you do not mind if you become a touch wet.”

Three voice said ‘wet’ with the perfect combination of confusion and curiosity and Mycroft simply rubbed his hands in glee.  Oh yes, Round 2 would be quite the joy…

__________

      “Can I take it off now?”

Arthur felt around and patted what he hoped was his fiancé on his shoulder.

      “Skip, this is part of the fun, remember.  We don’t have to have a little chat, now do we?”

      “Will Martin also lose the right to orgasm if that occurs?”

John pushed Sherlock forward, and Sam just wiggled his eyebrows at Mycroft in acknowledgement of John’s method of securing Sherlock’s cooperative behavior for this trip.

      “Why is Sherlock talking about… that!”

      “Calm down, Skip, Mr. Sherlock was just being silly.  Mycroft, are we ready?”

      “Yes, we are.  Blindfolds may now be removed.”

Arthur dragged his blindfold slowly off one eye and then the other since he didn’t want to be blinded by all of what he knew was going to be incredible brilliance slamming into his eyes at one time.

      “Oh… Skip, I… I think I need a little sit down.”

Martin grinned and had to admit that Mycroft definitely kept his word that Arthur’s interests weren’t going to be left out of this.

      “It’s a big one, isn’t it?”

      “From what I know, dear cousin, the Georgia Aquarium is one of the world’s largest.  Roughly 100,000 animals I believe and, since the doors are shuttered at this hour to the public, they are there for our enjoyment alone.  And, that enjoyment shall certainly have an interactive component.”

      “In…In…In…Interactive?”

      “Arthur, have you ever frolicked with Beluga whales and otters?”

Arthur’s ‘aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh’ as he ran towards the small crowd of staff waiting at the door blared into the night like a fire alarm.

      “This is perfect for him, Mycroft.  Thank you.”

      “You are quite welcome, Martin.  Now, go and join your fiancé before he dives into a tank without the proper equipment.”

Actually, Martin was more concerned about Arthur diving in without his clothes, but he kept that to himself as he darted off to intercept his fiancé.

      “I have to admit, Skinny, this is going well.  Of course, that means no one’s had to wear my party pooper hat and…”

      ‘Yes, Sherry, we are all in awe of your rather fetid creation and hope, at some point, someone becomes sufficiently worthy to have it adorn their less-than-festive brow.  Now may we join the others?  I suspect quite heartily that some degree of chaperoning might be required for an overnight stay in such a romantic locale.”

      “Cockblocking powers to full!”

      “Exactly.”

With matching grins, Sam and Douglas took off after the others, leaving Greg laughing in their wake.

      “Looks like our little tryst has to be put on hold, love.”

      “Gregory, if you are stating that I could not circumvent my idiotic brother’s intentions, then I am most hurt by your opinion of me.”

      “So, yes for tryst?”

      “We shall see.  Frankly, I’m not certain if you will wish to spare the time…”

__________

Ok, so maybe he _wasn’t_ certain he wanted to spare the time.  This was incredible!  The whole, massive aquarium at their disposal, all night long, with a billion fish… just viewing the tanks took an age!  Then there were otters and penguins to play with and _then_ … oh, and then…

      “Are you comfortable, my dear?”

      “I can’t believe John and Sam are letting me do this.”

      “As long as you are not overexerting yourself, a small amount of assisted swimming is permitted.  Fortunately, the dolphins are agreeable to greeting you at the water’s surface and are known for their gentle treatment of swimmers.”

Lestrade, in his swimming trunks and personal flotation vest, with undershirt to protect his healing injuries, grinned so widely his face hurt.  Though he grinned even more widely when the first dolphin came up to say hello.  However, his grin was nothing compared to Mycroft’s when he heard his partner giggle like a schoolboy.

      “This is amazing!”

      “I am delighted you are pleased.”

      “AH!  I touched one!”

      “We shall add that to your list of triumphs.  Though, the sight of you holding an otter like a baby was one I shall not soon forget.”

      “It loved me.”

      “As do I.  And the young penguin to whom you provided a ride in your wheelchair.”

      “Did you see how happy it was?  AHHHH!!!  The fucking dolphin nudged my bum!”

      “My, it does have good taste, doesn’t it?”

      “I’m going to paddle a little and see if it follows me.”

      “And I shall be right here to ensure your paddling is successful.  And that you are not absconded with to be the bridegroom of a seagoing mammal.”

      “That’s important, because there’s only one person I’m going to be the bridegroom of and he’s currently looking gorgeous and rubbing my bum where an evil dolphin just bumped it.”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed his future husband slowly and passionately, feeling a not-uncommon rush of emotion that his Gregory was here… that he had not been lost because of _his_ disgraceful stupidity. 

      “It is the joy and privilege of my life to protect your bottom from all manner of threat.”

      “I feel very protected.”

      “ Excellent.”

      “But I want the dolphin to poke my bum again.”

Mycroft laughed at the man in his arms and wondered how he had managed to survive for so long without someone in his life to love.  But, perhaps, it was always meant to be, for no one in creation could he ever love as much as the man who now stood at the center of his world.

      “Here fishy fishy… come poke my bottom…”

And what a glorious man he was…

__________

This time it was Arthur who had to be carried away to the car, in addition to being frisked because of the very real chance of his attempt to spirit away some living souvenir to be his new playmate.  The threat of tears as they wrenched Arthur away from his night of swimming, playing, petting, holding, watching and eating was almost enough to push Mycroft to rearrange the remainder of his plans, but he held firm, knowing that a visit such as this was not exactly something they could not repeat in the future.  And _would_ repeat in the future.  As often as Arthur wanted.  Provided he roused from his euphoria-induced catatonia, of course.

      “I think you broke my fiancé, Mycroft.”

      “It appears you might be right.  However, I believe some of his beloved juice might prove invigorating and I am quite certain the flight crew have replenished his stocks.”

      “Well, fingers crossed.  And, is there a reason we had to leave before the sun came up?  Not that it makes any difference, I suppose, but a little breakfast with the fishes would have been nice.  In fact, where did the food go?  All I could find was a platter of plain bagels and water.”

Mycroft felt his own fiancé’s eyes narrowed in his direction, also, and smiled as enigmatically as he was able.

      “Round 3 might be more easily managed on somewhat of an empty stomach.”

      “I do _not_ think I want to know what it is.”

      “Well, dear cousin, we shall soon find out.  Our flight time is, again, rather short.  Use it well, Martin, and do try to return Arthur to the world of the living.  I am very certain he would be upset if he missed our next activity.”

      “So, it’s not back to London yet?”

      “In due time, Martin.  In due time…”

__________

      “Well, Sherlock… how are you enjoying the festivities.”

Sherlock looked over at his husband and was very disappointed his hoped-for scowl did not manifest at full intensity.

      “It is the most ghastly experience of my life.”

      “Oh, shame that.  So, all that conversation with the fish people about toxins and venoms and death due to shark attack and stingray stings and all those sorts of things was just another boring chat to add to the rest of the boring chats in your life?”

      “At least they spoke quietly so as not to disturb my thoughts.”

      “And the bags of journal articles, photographs, biological slides and samples… more rubbish for the bin?”

      “Eventually.  I suppose I should, out of courtesy, inspect _some_ of it.”

      “Scuba diving in the whale shark tank was just a waste of your time, I suspect.”

      “It was a useful skill to practice, if I am forced to say something nice.”

John wondered if he could ever love this man more than he did now.  Sherlock had been nearly as bad as Arthur for having to do, see and try everything.  And, again, Mycroft had made sure that there were people present to answer any and all questions that might arise, no matter how technical, inappropriate or horrifying they might be.

      “Well, you just sit there and think and try to wash that horrid experience out of your Mind Palace.  We’ll be landing in about an hour, so says Mycroft, so you should be able to do a lot by then.”

      “Very well.  Do not disturb me.”

      “Not a problem.”

      “Except…”

      “Yes?”

      “We did remember to obtain a copy of the poster set for marine invertebrates, did we not?”

      “It’s in the hold.”

      “Very good.  It might serve as a useful resource some day.”

      “And they’ll look very smart framed in your laboratory.”

      “That, too.”

__________

      “Ok, Skinny, you got me.  You said you had extra surprises and I assume we’re now on to that portion of the program.”

Mycroft side-eyed his brother as Sam gave Lestrade a quick health check and smirked his most insufferable smirk.

      “Perhaps.”

      “I fucking hate you.  Where are we going?”

      “Where no man has gone before?”

      “You are not allowed to make a Star Trek reference in my presence.  I suffered enough of your science fiction addiction when we were kids.”

The haze of Lestrade’s semi-nap immediately cleared and he was all ears, making certain Mycroft was very aware of the fact.

      “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

      “You lie like a cheap rug.  Hear that, Greggy?  Your fi… snugglebunny is a big, fat, stinky liar.  Whatever was on TV that involved spaceships, aliens, space colonization, the great god Doctor Who… he was on the rug staring at the boob tube sucking it all in.”

      “That is a vast untruth.”

      “Don’t listen to him, invalid.  From now on, you want something from him, you just dangle a Space: 1999 DVD in front of him and you’ll have him right where you want him.”

      “Is that so?”

Lestrade knew Mycroft had a weakness for his sexiest of sexy grins and gave it full force, adoring the way Mycroft crumpled under its power.

      “Sherrinford is exaggerating, as he is always wont to do.  Whereas I will admit that the few times I chose to cleanse my mind with a small amount of mindless, passive entertainment, I may have focused preferentially on a certain genre, however, it is by no means the nearly obsessive portrait the buffoon paints.”

      “So, no Blake’s 7 or Doctor Who marathon some cold, rainy day in our future?”

Now and then, Lestrade was able to surprise his lover and Mycroft always responded so… cutely… when it happened.

      “At our very first opportunity, my dear.  I promise you, wholeheartedly.”

       “I look forward to it.  As long as I’m not dying.  Sam, I’m not dying, am I?”

      “Unfortunately, no.  Here in the States, I can get serious cash for a freshly dead, mostly healthy body, so you are putting a serious hole in my bank balance by hanging on like this.”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  You may now leave our vicinity.  In fact, why not take a lovely stroll in the early-morning air?”

      “We’re a trillion miles off the ground going a billion miles an hour.”

      “Your point being?”

      “That you smell like a monkey and you look like one, too.”

      “Begone.”

Sam made a series of rude gestures that involved several leg lifts and using a returning-from-the-loo Martin as a prop, then left the couple alone to enjoy a few moments of quiet before the captain announced that they would soon be landing.

      “Still no clues, love?”

      “I believe not.  Though, it is with regret that I must inform you that our plans shall take a detour from that of the rest of the party.”

      “Oh?  Why?”

      “I believe that will become clear to you.  Do not fret, however… I have a suitable alternative planned.”

      “Something fun?”

      “We shall see…”

__________

Martin stared.  Arthur stared.  Douglas stared.  John stared.  Lestrade stared.  Sherlock scowled.  Sam laughed.  Mycroft smirked.

      “You have fucking got to be kidding me.  This is some serious, balls-tingling shit.”

      “Mycroft… well, I suppose I’m not seeing things, but and… well, I don’t mean to sound stupid…”

      “You are too late for that, Martin.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  But… really, Mycroft?  _Really_?”

      “I am absolutely ready for this.”

      “You cannot be, John, because I don’t know what is going on and you are prohibited from being more prepared for something than am I.”

      “Too bad for you, Dupin, because I find myself squarely in the good doctor’s camp.  As they say, bring it on.”

      “I think I’m a bit confused.”

A feeling Lestrade shared, though he decided to keep silent and remain inscrutable.  For his part, Martin put his arm around his fiancé and gave him a big hug, because Arthur was a few moments from bursting when he heard the news, which was a feeling _he_ was fighting with all his might right now.

      “See that plane, love?  I’ve read about this… they take you up and, well, not to get into the specifics, but you get to float around like the astronauts do in space.”

Arthur’s eyes grew so large, John prepared himself to perform emergency surgery with whatever plastic utensils he might find among the flotsam and jetsam they were collecting on the trip.

      “Yep, kid… this here is the newfangled version of the old Vomit Comet. Hence the reason, Skinny cut off the rations a little early.  How many go’s do we get?”

Mycroft patted his lover on his shoulder, because it was just sinking into Lestrade’s head that he was _not_ going to get to participate in this particular activity.

      “Normally, a passenger would receive fifteen parabolic arcs, each providing roughly thirty seconds of weightlessness.  However, I believe they will be willing to donate a few more to our fine cause if you desire them.”

      “We… we get to be like the astronauts and do flips and tricks and all of that?”

Arthur’s knees were getting weak and Martin was in no shape to help him, so Douglas and John stepped in to support the happy couple.  Sam was no use, he was too busy rubbing his hands together in anticipation and Sherlock’s mind was short-circuiting at the possibility of data collection he had never dreamed possible.  If a murder was committed in space, he wanted to be the acknowledged expert and immediately be called in for the investigation!”

      “Well, you had best be off.  There is a training briefing, I believe, and then you shall be aloft.  Gregory and I will meet you when you are done.”

      “What?  No, that can’t be right.  Mycroft, you and Greg have to come.  This is the most… I don’t think I can even say BRILLIANT, because I may, just may, have found something that is actually more brilliant than brilliant, and I’m including Skip Brilliant! in that, because… well, I think it’s safe to say we’ve found ourselves in a very new level of brilliance and words haven’t quite caught up with it yet.”

Mycroft turned his eyes towards Lestrade who was standing and leaning against the car, and returned his regretful smile.

      “I’m afraid Gregory’s condition will not permit him to participate, however, I have alternative activities planned for us, so we shall not let the time be wasted.”

      “No! Doctor Watson?  Doctor Sam?”

      “Sorry, Arthur, but Mycroft’s right.  I saw a program on how NASA used to do this and Greg won’t be able to manage.”

      “But, Doctor Watson, can’t you… isn’t there some medicine or something…”

      “Sorry, kid.  Greggy can’t have a ride, but he’s not dead, so Mycroft can take him for a private flight some other time.”

      “That’s true, I suppose.  Greg… I’m sorry you can’t come with us.  Mycroft, you do promise that you’re going to do something fun, right?”

      “I give you my word.  Now, run along, we still have one more item on our agenda and we do not want to shortchange it.”

Sherlock grabbed Arthur’s hand and pulled him along, which meant Martin got pulled along since he was attached to Arthur’s free hand and the short train led the way to the waiting plane.

      “This is unbelievable, Mycroft.  Really, those lucky bastards are going to have the time of their lives.”

      “And you shall enjoy the experience upon request once your physical condition can weather the stress.”

      “Promise?  Because I _really_ want to do that.”

      “I shall sign my name in blood at the bottom of the contract.”

      “Yes!  Alright then, what are we up to?”

      “Breakfast, for a start and then, I thought we might take a tour of the local points of interest.”

      “Which would be?”

      “Well, we just happen to be near Cape Canaveral and I _do_ have the highest level of clearance for… well, anything, so I thought a leisurely promenade through Kennedy Space Center would be an enjoyable way to spend the morning.”

      “Ok, that is something I am definitely looking forward to.”

      “And, I do believe they are launching a rocket today, for which we have rather privileged seating to view.”

      “We get to see a rocket launch?  A real life, up-close-and-personal rocket launch?”

      “We do.  I do feel some regret that the others shall miss the experience, however, one cannot have everything.”

      “Have I told you today that I love you?”

      “I believe so, however, I never tire of hearing it.”

Lestrade pulled Mycroft towards him and gave him a kiss, whispering a description of the depth of his love and how he would like to express it into his partner’s ear.  Then he leaned back and admired the rosy hue of Mycroft’s cheeks.

      “Good enough?”

      “I will remember all of that for when we return home.”

      “I’m counting on it.  Oh, and where are we going from here?  The next part of our day you talked about.”

      “Gregory, can you not guess?  We _are_ in Florida, after all.”

Oh yes, Lestrade could definitely guess.

      “I want Mickey Mouse ears.”

      “With your name embroidered upon them.”

      “Yes.  And a watch.”

      “We shall find the perfect one. “

      “Know what you said we were going to do when we got home?”

      “Yes?”

      “Multiply that by two.”

__________

Mycroft looked over the sleeping forms of his family and drew in a deep and contented breath.  The [Zero G](http://www.gozerog.com) flight had been a spectacular success, leaving the participants unable to stop talking about their time in the air and then it was an afternoon/evening at Disneyworld, where there was an unannounced, but breathtaking fireworks display to end the night that the park manager had been more than happy to plan and provide after a phone call from the CEO of The Walt Disney Company who might owe a few favors to a certain minor official in the British government.

Now, it was but a few days until the wedding and his time would be in limited supply until then due to this short holiday, but he had full faith that the rest of the wedding party would be able to manage the last-minute details.  Though, of course, he would review and amend those last-minute details, if necessary.  And handle any emergencies that might arise in the waning hours of Martin and Arthur’s bachelorhood.  Really, his input would be minimal, at best.  It was only a few days, in any case… he had gone far longer than that without any appreciable sleep…


	25. Chapter 25

      “What the… give me back the salt.”

Which, of course, made Sam push it even farther from John.

      “Bastard.”

And, as John reached across the table for it, Sam plucked it up and set it on the table behind him, adding an appropriate finger gesture to reward John for his manners.  Luckily, in their favorite pub, none of that was considered unusual.

      “Give me the salt!  It’s not cyanide, for god’s sake.”

      “True, but trust me, you don’t need it.”

      “Need, no.  Want, yes.  Give me the salt.”

      “Nope.  I’m not going to be blamed when your already-substantial water retention issue comes around to bite you in the ass.”

      “What… I’ll have you know that everything I own fits just fine, thank you very much.”

      “You wear baggy shit to cover the pounds you’ve gained living with Babylock, so don’t try and claim slim and trim with me.”

      “I’m not fat!”

      “Didn’t say you were, just said you don’t need anything making you _fatter_.”

      “Salt!”

      “Nope.”

      “I swear I am going to pound you… what are you doing?”

John watched Sam tapping the base of one of his fingers and felt a large boulder plunge into his stomach as he let his eyes trace down to that same finger on his own hand and saw the obvious mark left over from the wedding ring he’d had to tug on pretty hard to get off his finger before he met his friend for a quick bite of lunch on the way to check the flowers for tomorrow’s grand event.  He’d known he shouldn’t have worn it this morning but… it was his wedding ring!  And he was a married man who was _happy_ to be a married man and have the ring to show off his status.  Apparently, he was also incredibly stupid…

      “Oh no.”

      “Oh yes.  You’re blown up like a balloon from eating too much junk food because you’ve been too lazy to cook and aren’t smart enough to take your collar off in time to let the mark fade before seeing someone whose not supposed to know you’re hitched.  Congrats by the way.  You and Sherlock are a great match and I’m honored to have you as a brother-in-law.  See?  I can be polite.  Now, take your brother-in-law ass over to the bar and get me another drink since you’re my waiter-for-life until the end of time.  Here’s a tip, never marry the youngest of a family, because you inherit his baby status and have to do everything the oldest says.  Next time, think ahead and spare yourself the humiliation.  You could have lived in sin forever as a free man, but no… had to punch a hole right in that, like the dumb fuck you are.”

John had no idea what to say since Sam’s smile was honestly pleased and he was mostly certain it was because he was happy about his and Sherlock’s marriage, but… Sam knew.  Which meant everyone in London would know by sundown.

      “You cannot tell a soul!”

      “Nobody I know _has_ a soul.”

      “Shut it!  Sam… please, Martin and Arthur are getting married tomorrow and I do _not_ want this to take away from their special day.”

Now, where had he heard that before?  Oh yes, from his _other_ baby brother who decided to take the plunge once one couple opened up the gate to the pool.  Maybe his secret identity was Cupid.  Show up and both brothers sign up for eternal married bliss.  There was money to be made if that was the case…

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah… don’t worry.  I won’t tell.  At least, not anyone who doesn’t already know.”

      “What!  Who?  Who knows?  And how did _you_ know if you didn’t know?  Or did you know?  You knew!  You _knew_ Sherlock and I were married, you miserable…”

      “Pipe down, pipsqueak.  Free tip… a good strategy for keeping a secret is _not_ yelling it at the top of your lungs in the middle of a very public place.”

John fumed in his chair and grabbed his knees to keep from reaching across the table and grabbing Sam’s throat instead.

      “You knew… how in the hell did you know!  No… wait… that’s not important.  You said someone _else_ knows.  Who?  Who knows?”

      “You’re not this dumb.”

      “Yes, I am!  Wait!  No, I’m not, you arsehole.  Now, tell me…”

      “Getting married around here isn’t like going through the drive-through at McDonald’s, you know.  Place your order and someone hands you a bag of husband and extra packets of ketchup if you ask nicely.”

      “What are you even… fuck!  I KNEW IT!  I knew there was a waiting period… Mycroft.  That meddling piece of…”

      “… made it so that you slid right into the I Do’s without either of you chickening out or Sherlock being put on the No Marriage list for being a fuckwad and pissing off all the civil servants, so you should probably buy him a thank you gift.  I’ll get one of those sexy fun catalogs and you can pick out something nice.  Ask Greggy for his size.”

      “The world isn’t big enough for the hate I have for you right now.”

      “Move to Uranus.  Or Sherlock’s anus, whichever is larger.”

John gripped his knees harder and was thankful the fake American motioned the server to bring another round, for a very large amount of alcohol sounded like a fantastic idea at the moment.

      “I’m going to…”

      “Sit back and enjoy the fact that someone knows you’re married, so you can talk about it.”

And more hate got added to the pile.  Because Sam was right and that was a terrible, terrible, wonderful thing.

      “Look at you trying not to smile.  Cute as a bug in a rug.”

      “Shut it, you useless excuse for a human.”

      “Being married is a glorious thing, isn’t it?”

John couldn’t hold it in anymore, and let his irritation fall away like boulders in a landslide.

      “It’s bloody fantastic.  It shouldn’t make any difference, one piece of paper between one day and the next, but it does.  I can’t explain it, but the difference is profound and I love everything about it.”

      “I know what you mean.  When my wife and I got married it was like my whole world shifted, even though we’d been living together before the wedding.  Little bro seems like he’s enjoying it, too.”

That really made John smile.  Sherlock was acting exactly as he was before their ceremony and completely different at the same time.  There was a… something that he couldn’t put his finger on… sort of like… reminded him of…

      “Security.  Confidence… that what you’re looking for?”

      “Don’t read my mind.  I get enough of that at home.  But… yeah.”

      “Sherlock loves you and knows you love him, but there’s a level of security that comes with having _evidence_ about something.  Someone says they love you, that’s great, but they’re willing to make you the other half of their lives?  That’s clinches the deal.  You’ve got proof they’re not poised to leave if someone better comes along, something, I’m not proud to say, I sometimes sort of hoped Laura would do.  I loved her with everything in me, but I won’t say my ears didn’t prick up when she talked about someone interesting she’d met that day.  I had nothing much to offer her when we got together and I honestly believed she deserved a hell of a lot better than me so, when I finally stockpiled enough courage to ask her to marry me, part of me expected her to say no so she could keep her options open.  She didn’t feel that way, of course, it was all in my head, but… well, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed sometimes.”

Not that John would admit to it, but something very similar had flittered through his mind on more than one occasion.  Sherlock was brilliant, gorgeous, interesting… and he was, well, _him_.  A good catch, to be sure, but Sherlock was in the proverbial other league.  The ring in his pocket told the tale, though.  Sherlock didn’t share those thoughts and maybe, just maybe, his partner had harbored a similar train of thought a time or two himself…

      “That’s true.  I have to thank you, though, for keeping our secret for awhile longer.  I have to say I never suspected you and Mycroft already knew.  You actually kept your insufferable selves to yourself for a change.”

      “And ruin your pitiful little surprise?  Sherlock would go off and cry in a corner and you’d stomp your feet so hard, those teeny legs of yours would fracture and that would be _another_ thing that would keep me from ever going back to real doctor work.”

      “Funny.  I think Sherlock’s aching to say something, though.  I’m not sure how much of it is excitement he’s married or because he wants to lord his married status over everyone else.  _Or_ , because Martin and Arthur are getting all the attention and he’s not… it’s hard to tell with him, sometimes.”

      “It’s all three, but mostly the first one.  After tomorrow, I suspect he won’t last a week before he lets the news slip.  I’m guessing you’re not planning some formal announcement and a re-do of the whole ceremony with doves and flowers…”

      “No, that’s not something either of us want.  At least, not now.  I can see us having something for, say, an anniversary, where we do it a bit more formal and have everyone there to watch, but not like the grand Olympic event we’re involved with right now.”

      “It’s a life-changing thing.”

      “That it is.  Tell me the truth, though, is there really any reason we have to go and check the flowers?”

      “Nope.  I just had to get away from all the glittery insanity before I started to crack heads.”

Something John understood perfectly.  Since they’d gotten back from the great stag night festivities, the level of Holmes household energy had skyrocketed and, somehow, everyone had been caught in the net and hadn’t left Mycroft’s house since they landed back in London.  There was a continual planning, fretting, eating party occurring and he knew that a large part of Mycroft’s smile as he left in the morning was because he had found a hole in the net and could go out and play in the much-calmer areas of the ocean.

      “Then it’s another thank you for saving my sanity.”

      “You’re welcome.  When we get back, Douglas is going to take Martin off to ‘check’ the catering and let him catch his breath before tonight.”

      “It won’t be that bad.”

      “Says you.”

      “Carolyn isn’t the dragon Martin claims she is.  Well, at least, she doesn’t breathe fire.”

      “She’s a mother of the… groom.  That spells trouble.”

      “Oh, had in-law problems, did you?”

      “Does a gun count?”

      “Sounds like you wife’s mother was a perceptive woman.”

      “And could hit a soup can off a fencepost at a hundred yards with the rifle her grandfather gave her.  My baby-making equipment was in dire peril there, for awhile.”

      “You still talk to them?”

      “Not really.  When Laura and Jimmy died, I went so far off the rails, not even light could find me.  Then… I don’t know, I guess I didn’t know what to say to them.”

      “You could change that.”

      “Why?”

      “Why not?”

      “That’s pathetic.”

      “You’re pathetic.”

      “Are you five?”

      “Are _you_ five?”

The server set down their fresh drinks and gave them a stink eye that said any potential lovers’ spats should be taken outside and not erupt in the middle of her area.  It was the mark of experience that each man recognized that particular glare and smiled a smile that assured her of their continued good behavior and an offering of a particularly handsome gratuity.

      “ANYWAY, we’ve got tonight’s family dinner ahead of us, tomorrow’s tornado of getting the happy couple to the altar, keeping them there long enough to say I Do, surviving the reception and the what I just know is going to be a continued after-reception party because Martin and Arthur won’t be considerate enough to go off for a prolonged, traditional wedding night so the rest of us can recuperate.”

      “That’s about the whole of it.”

      “John, if I don’t make it, tell my loved ones… go to hell.”

      “I’ll make sure to pass that along.  Now, drink up because we _do_ have a job to do.”

      “Yes… though your enthusiasm for it is a rather telling thing.”

John and Sam looked up towards the new voice and the decidedly new face.

      “And, may I ask why that’s your business, buckaroo?”

      “If given the option, I would happily absolve myself of it, but Carolyn was rather adamant about, as she put it, an untainted eye verifying the wedding preparations.  I was told to stop here first before the flower shop and look for the small, angry man and the tall, redolent tramp.  And, surprise of surprises, Richardson was actually right about something.  Herc Shipwright, at your service.  Carolyn’s… escort on call.”

The pieces slipped into place and each man felt an immediate kinship with the new arrival, having had great experience dealing with somewhat challenging loved ones.

      “Oh!  Arthur’s talked about you.  Please, Mr. Shiprwright, have a seat.  Sam and I were just fortifying ourselves for the task of wading through the jungle of flowers for the wedding.”

John pushed out a chair and had to admit Arthur’s description of the man as dashing wasn’t off the mark, even if it did make both Douglas and Martin seethe.

      “Thank you.  In truth, I was not entirely unhappy to be dispatched, because… well, I’ve seen riots that had a lower level of vitality than is burbling in that rather ostentatious residence.”

Ostentatious, Sam and John read from Herc’s eyes, in the sense that it was a pure source of envy and if Mycroft met an untimely fate, the pilot would be one of those queuing for a chance to move into it like a hermit crab into a just-abandoned shell.

      “Skinny does like his fancy things, prissy pants that he is.  I’m surprised Greggy hasn’t gone blind from the reflection off all the diamond-encrusted woodwork and gold-plated toilet seat.”

      “The burden of associating with wealth.  Thankfully, I have only to contend with the slightest trickle of burden flowing towards me, reduced tremendously in garish gleam.”

      “How _was_ Greece, by the way?”

      “Tolerable, Doctor Watson.  One can only, however, inhabit a luxurious house, in an exquisite corner of the region, rich with culture, fine food and calming breezes for so long before one’s constitution becomes unreasonably strained.  Fortunately, Carolyn is a doting mother, so Arthur has not had to pay any undue price for our sacrifice.”

      “Very decent of you sparing Arthur’s feelings for your inconvenience.  I thought you weren’t supposed to pop into Mycroft’s until tonight, though.  What brings you out this early when you could be disapproving of Mycroft’s burden all around the city in a nice private car?”

This time, Herc couldn’t hide his grin under a meringue of disdain and gave John a ‘you win this one’ nod.

      “Gordon called Carolyn and I think she decided to check that the wedding gifts were safely locked away and her son still had all of the fillings in his teeth.”

Something John and Sam both had to agree was a valid concern, after meeting Gordon Shappey.

      “And… I believe she also wanted a bit more time to take in the experience that Arthur has been romping through when he visits London.  Arthur is… _Arthur_ and I believe she somewhat expected that he would live a simple life with someone who would manage him day to day and things would… continue on much as they currently were.  Much the opposite of what the boy has found.”

      “Yeah, we’re not exactly the most average bunch on the planet, but Artie fits right in.  Kid doesn’t care what you are, only _who_ you are, and more power to him for doing what we all should do, but fail at miserably.  I think, actually, if he wandered off too far, Sherlock and Mycroft would have mental breakdowns, which, actually, would bring this hoity-toity country back to its hunter-gatherer days.”

      “Thus, Carolyn’s curiosity.”

      “Yeah, I see that.  I have an idea.  Maybe we can get Babylock to take her along on a case so she can really see Arthur in action.”

John nearly spat out his beer and was not happy their new friend seemed to actually be considering the idea.

      “If it involves a great deal of running or… exertion, I think she would refuse.  However, the shouting-based activities might hold appeal.”

      “I’ll put the bug in Arthur’s ear.  I think he’d like showing off in front of his mom.  And Sherlock would be suicidal, which is always fun.  Leave it to me.”

John’s head dropped on the table and wasn’t sure whose hand patted him sympathetically, but he’d take all he could get right now.

      “So, Herc, how about a beer or three while John has his beauty rest?”

      “I doubt that the local swill is really up to par, but one does what one must for the spirit of camaraderie.”

      “Good man.  And, just think, if John passes to the Great Beyond, we’re already on the way to the florists to pick up a nice wreath.”

      “A small one with few stalwart daisies should do.”

      “You read my mind.”

      “I hate you both.”

      “But, you hate me more.  You’ve known me longer, dimwit.”

      “Point taken.”

__________

Carolyn stopped herself looking around Mycroft’s sitting room again and focused on sipping her tea in the exquisite and excessively costly cup.  There was no doubt that Mr. Farmer was a wealthy man, however, it was positively unsporting to be a wealthy _and_ tasteful man.  Though how his decorating scheme had not suffered the ravages of Hurricane Arthur and the ancillary squalls that followed in his wake was nearly unfathomable.

      “…so that will be done.  And it’s brilliant that Herc’s going to help because he’s brought you lovely flowers before, even though you tossed them in the bin.  That didn’t make them any less lovely, though, so he’ll know right away if the wedding flowers… WEDDING!... are going to be perfect for tomorrow.”

      “Yes, and Hercules is well aware of my exacting standards, so I will assume he will step up and take charge if any hint of vulgarity or haphazardness rears its head.”

Arthur refreshed his mother’s tea, being very, very careful with Mycroft’s teapot and smiled as hopefully as he could when he saw his mother’s eyes roam, once again, around her surroundings.

      “Well, Mum… what do you think?”

      “About what?”

      “Mum… you keep looking at Mycroft’s house like you want it to be your house, which I completely understand because this is a brilliant house, but your house is brilliant, too, just in a slightly differently-brilliant way.”

      “Mr. Holmes pays individuals to make his home brilliant, idiot boy.  That cannot be compared to my home which has achieved its aesthetically-pleasing status purely through my own actions and choices.”

      “Oh.  Well, I suppose that makes sense.  Though you do read all of those house magazines and I know you mark articles about decorating on the cheap, so since you _pay_ for those magazines, I might have to say…”

      “Nothing.  You will say nothing because, as expected, the wrong path has been taken at the fork of this conversation.   Now…”

It was extremely rare that Carolyn found herself at a loss for words or hesitant about going forward with a discussion, but this was one of those times and Arthur prepared to leap out of the way if the annoyance in his mother’s eyes decided to come flying at him.

      “Yes?”

      “This is not easy for me, Arthur, so kindly keep your mouth very tightly shut until I am finished speaking.  Here we go…  no, one more moment… yes.  Now, I’m ready… tomorrow, Arthur, you will be a married man and, though I can’t say I ever expected it to happen, I supposed _something_ romantic would be part of your future and… though certainly not with someone like Martin… but I am not displeased with the situation.  Much to my surprise, you have proven that you can manage to keep yourself alive without my tireless supervision and, further, navigate the most… preposterous… of situations with a measure of cool-headedness or, at least, un-Arthurness.  I am… _incalculably_ proud of you and what you are making of yourself and, though the likelihood of my saying it again in this lifetime is the same as me bringing another child into this world, do not believe for a moment that it means I feel any less pride or… affection… for you than I do now.  But, be aware that your father _will_ be at the wedding tomorrow and we both know that bodes ill for anyone within a five-mile radius of his odious person.  You are to ignore him, Arthur, and whatever drivel spills out of his supremely punchable mouth.  You have, to my eternal dismay, a large and diverse cadre of individuals who care about you and know the truth that, all appearances to the contrary, are _not_ a clot.  You may now open your mouth, but should consider yourself prohibited from commenting upon, in any manner, _any_ portion of my speech from now until the sounding of Gabriel’s horn.”

Since hugging wasn’t exactly commenting, Arthur jumped out of his chair and gave Carolyn a massive hug, wiping away a tear when he jumped back and stared across at her, grinning like a man who had everything he wanted in life and knew it.

      “Very good.  Kindly take yourself away and find the other members of Team Useless.  Engage in something productive that will reduce the level of headache I shall experience when the circus begins tomorrow.”

      “Ok.  But, what are you going to do?”

      “That is my business.  Point me to that one I have yet to meet.”

      “Who?  Greg?  Oh… I don’t know…”

The eruption that occurred last night when Mycroft, in a display of uncharacteristically poor judgment, mentioned that he had Lestrade a new suit made for the wedding because his others likely wouldn’t fit properly.  Arthur had to run and hide in the kitchen until it was over and Mycroft was continuing to walk on eggshells around his partner, whose temper still hadn’t quite cooled to its normal level.  It had been thought a very wise thing to do to keep the agitated man away from any possible sources of additional agitation… such as the MJN Alpha dog…

      “That is generally the case, yes.  However, I want a word with Mr. Lestrade so a word I will have.  Point.”

Arthur’s hand rose on its own accord and pointed in the direction of Lestrade’s bunker.

      “Very good.  Now, be somewhere else.”

Arthur snatched up the tea tray and scurried off to find his fiancé, hoping that both Carolyn and Lestrade made it out of their meeting in one piece.  Though, if there had to be a funeral, they’d already have a church, a minister and lots flowers they could reuse…

__________

      “Oh dear lord…”

      “Shut it, Douglas!  I have to get this right!”

      “All you are required to do is walk to the altar, Martin.  After the age of two, I believe that walking is considered a mastered skill for the majority of the human race and for those who it is not, there is technology available to achieve the same end.”

      “True, Dupin, but you forget… this is Martin.  I have seen Sir trip over a crisps packet, as well wobble his way to the ground when he put his shoes on the wrong feet.  Assuming that walking, per se, is a guaranteed part of his skills repertoire is rather presumptuous.”

      “I can walk!  It’s just… well, I only got to do it once at the church for practice.  There should have been a proper amount of time allotted for practice or, at least, a manual diagramming the procedure for me to study.  If I make a mess of this… on Arthur’s big day… and, of course, if there was anyone in the world who _could_ make a mess of it, it _would_ be me, so we might as well just assume it _will_ happen, along with getting a big stain on my suit, walking into something so I lose a tooth or have a black eye, contracting a case of nervous bladder, getting stung by a bee on my nose or spilling paint on the flowers.”

      “Why in the world would you bring paint to a wedding?”

Martin gripped his hair so tightly, Douglas thought he might actually pull it out, so gave Sherlock a look that said to go easy on the bridegroom in his moment of hysteria.

      “I grant that each of those is entirely possible, Captain Crieff, however, I believe it safe to say that with the number of handlers assigned to you for tomorrow’s revelry, we can discount the vast majority.  All you have to do is dress, wait, walk and speak.”

      “Which is another thing!  What if I don’t remember what to say!”

Sherlock startled when Martin actually looked at him to answer that and, again, cursed that John had taken the coward’s way out and fled the scene of the disaster before _he_ could manage to do the same.

      “I thought you said that all that was required of you was to repeat the vows spoken by the minister.”

      “Exactly!”

      “You are the worst possible candidate for marriage in the history of the institution.”

      “AAAARRRGGGGHHHH!!!”

Douglas wondered if there were people you could hire to manage the nearly-wed so their friends and family were spared the task.  Right now, a pass of the hat would likely net enough cash for a very handsome wage…

      “Martin, you are seeking disaster where none exists, but where it will happily appear if you wish hard enough.  The nice man with the book will say something, then you will say it back, while looking at Arthur and not the book.  When he mentions rings, do what he says to do about them and…”

      “The rings!  Oh god, Douglas… what if I forget them?  And you know I’ll drop one or both of them right at the front of the church for everyone to see…”

Slowly, Sherlock was seeing why his oldest brother had such a fondness for drink.

      “Give them to Douglas to carry.  He is standing with you at the altar, primarily, it seems, to keep you from trembling yourself to death and is unlikely to lose anything that has even the smallest measure of monetary worth.”

      “Thank you, Dupin.  And I’ll make certain to find some task for you to perform since you have to stand there, as well, darkening Arthur’s side of the dais.  Perhaps I’ll drop a word into Arthur’s ear about the reading of a poem.  That’s quite the thing nowadays and I know you would find a very appropriate one to recite to commemorate the event.”

Sherlock glared thunderously and part of that glare was for the reminder that he _was_ going to be the person standing at Arthur’s side.  It was ludicrous to choose as your representative the person who held pomp and ceremony in _least_ regard, yet… Arthur said he wanted a friend at the altar with him…

_“Ridiculous”_

_“It’s not ridiculous, Mr. Sherlock, it’s brilliant!  You’re supposed to have a friend up there with you and, one, you’re my friend and, two, you’re the reason Skip and I are getting married!”_

_“You and Martin are marrying because he asked and you accepted.”_

_“I know what you’re trying to do, Mr. Sherlock, and it’s not going to work.  Not for even the tiniest minute.  You whipped my head around and made me think that maybe Skip and I had a real chance to be boyfriends, probably because you already used your detective skills and deduced we were going to be a brilliant couple, and so I took the chance and now… WEDDING!  So, you have to be up there with me, though I won’t ask you to smile or anything because I know that’s not something you like to do when a lot of people are watching.  And, anyway, I already had the flowers made to pin on your suit, so you can’t say no now or those flowers won’t have anything to do and I’m not going to be responsible for bored flowers.”_

      “Please do.  I shall ask Sherrinford to write something special for the occasion.”

The look of sheer terror on Martin’s face was something that would keep Sherlock warm on many a cold night.

      “There will be no poetry at my wedding!”

      “Neither of you have any sense of occasion.  You should really have hired me as wedding consultant, Martin.  I have had more experience than anyone in your inner circle, you know.”

      “All I want… all I hope for, Douglas, is that I remain vertical, unblemished and un-tongue-tied, until such time as Arthur and I are pronounced husband and husband.  Then the apocalypse can happen for all I care and you can have all the occasion you feel is proper.”

Which was why Sherlock was extremely happy with his own method of affecting a marriage.  A half-hour, twenty minutes of which was filling out paperwork and John using the toilet, and that was that.  Efficient and effective, the way it should be.  A barge of fine chocolates and roses wouldn’t have made him any more married than he was now or love John any more deeply.  Now, it remained to see what path dear brother Mycroft trod for his own nuptials.  Likely it would be indistinguishable from a coronation, because Mycroft was both an annoying traditionalist and an incredible show-off, but he _had_ proven himself a tad unpredictable lately… one thing was certain, he would not stand at the altar for that prolonged and torturous debacle.  Sherrinford could do it.  He had to have _some_ use and it might as well be keeping _him_ from having to engage in tedious family rituals.  And, the lout would inevitably send Mycroft into a volcanic fury, which would be far more enjoyable to watch than a tiresome exchange of rings.

      “Well, you’re no fun.  Luckily, there’s still the reception for embarrassing moments and the pictures documenting it to be had.  Anyway, as per rings… I shall hold yours and Dupin shall hold Arthur’s or the other way around depending on your perspective, and they shall make their way to the appointed fingers without any incident, I have full faith.  Now, do you want to run though this again or can we consider our sentence commuted?”

      “Maybe… just once more?”

Douglas and Sherlock sighed heavily and got comfortable, to listen to Martin run through his wedding day checks once again.  And, most likely, _several_ once again’s before the afternoon was over…

__________

Oh, now what?  Everyone had been fucking smart and left him alone all day, so who was risking a bollocking by bothering him now.  Not that, of course, anybody actually _deserved_ a bollocking, but this was his own internal monologue, so he could be as much of an arsehole as he wanted.  At least Mycroft had been sharp enough to put that bastard of a suit out of sight so he didn’t throw something at it and waste four billion quid of cloth.

      “Come in.”

Greg wasn’t sure who he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the stern-faced woman who marched into his day room and took one of the available seats, apparently for the purpose of glaring at him.

      “That was not a very welcoming tone, Mr. Lestrade.”

This was a surprise… whether it was a pleasant one or not was yet to be decided.  The arrival of Arthur’s mum wasn’t supposed to happen until later tonight for a full-family dinner that he was debating bowing out of because nobody needed a grouchy old man glowering over the supper table like he had a problem with gout and hadn’t been laid in a year or two.

      “Sorry about that.  You must be Arthur’s mother.  I’ve heard you a few times when I’ve talked to Arthur on the phone.  I can see where the lad gets his good looks from.”

Rule #1 with mothers – flatter and accompany flattery with modified version of killer sex grin so it isn’t so sexy, but implies that if the situation was different you might use the full version because they still had a lot of _it_ to spread around.

      “Why are you grinning like a gaseous goose?”

That went well.  Looks like unpleasant surprise was going to be the verdict.  Not unexpected with the tone of the last day or so.  ‘No, my dear, you are not, as you unflatteringly term it, a weed, but there is no reason to appear at the wedding in a suit that will make you look the part, now is there?’  Bastard.  Just because he’d lost some weight… a good bit of weight… mostly muscle… was no reason to make an issue of it with a new suit so nobody had to look and think ‘oh that poor sick man, his clothes are simply hanging off him…’  Until, of course, he started to build up more fat and nothing would fit, but for an entirely _different_ reason.

      “Just being friendly.  What can I do for you Mrs. Knapp-Shappey?”

      “I am simply ensuring that every component of tomorrow’s festivities is in order.  _You_ do not appear to be in order.”

Definitely unpleasant with a bit of ‘what did I do to deserve this’ on the side.

      “Thanks for that.  Pick on the man with bullet holes in his chest.”

      “If you weren’t alive, I would… perhaps… tread lightly, but since you are, there is no reason to treat you like a sensitive toddler.  Now, what is your role in tomorrow’s proceedings?”

Good question.

      “Sit there like a good little boy and applaud when the show’s over.”

Oh… she really could glare, couldn’t she?  Almost as good as a Holmes, which was saying a _lot_ …

      “Peevishness does not suit you, though, I am not entirely certain what would.”

      “I’m a complex man.”

      “I would suppose so, else you would not be able to successfully navigate recovering from your stupidity and attain almost Father Christmas-like status with my son.  Or, continue to live in sin with the Almighty Administrator of the Universe.”

      “He does love his paperwork.”

      “Then I shall messenger him mine to enhance his glee.  Now, as mother of the groom, it is my duty to ensure this ceremony proceeds on schedule and to my specifications.  If you do not currently have a job to do, I shall assign one to you.  From what I understand, the child-minding assignments currently stand as Douglas and his disreputable American friend, who I must also inspect, shall tend to Martin’s grooming and that detective fellow and our illustrious Mr. Farmer will manage Arthur.  That little doctor is going to act as liaison between the two camps and act as a third set of hands for particularly intricate preparations and matters of grooming.  This disgraceful lack of forethought is not at all surprising since I was not involved in the decision, but I shall not let it stand.”

      “Forethought?  You’ve lost me.”

      “Who is to tend to the guests for the weeks and weeks it will take to sculpt Martin and Arthur into presentable grooms?”

      “Uh… you?”

      “Are you attempting to be amusing?”

      “No, I guess not.”

      “Good.  Amusing also does not suit you.  My role shall be to _greet_ the arrivals.  Herc’s role will be to keep a full glass of wine in my hand while I greet the arrivals. Your role will be to get them to their seats, point out the loo, have a harsh word with anyone exhibiting inappropriate behavior, including crying babies, find a place to lock away any misbehaving children and aforementioned crying babies and _see_ them locked away for the duration, find more wine for Herc to provide me if the supply dwindles, coordinate with the officiant, tend to the florist if something does not meet my specifications,  prevent alcohol making its way to the groom-preparation rooms, ensure the survivors of the groom preparations are in place for the start of the ceremony and any other duties I see fit to bestow upon you.  Is that clear?”

Lestrade looked around to see who it was Carolyn was talking to. 

      “Me?”

      “There shall be no layabouts while I am in charge.”

      “I… maybe you don’t know this, but I can’t even push my own wheelchair for the length of three paces without needing a tumbler of pain medication and a good nap.”

      “That may be the case but it is certainly not _my_ problem.  I would assume that you would insist that you be provided with one of those self-propelled contraptions to properly execute your assignment, but, regardless of method, rest assured that your infirmity will not spare you my wrath if I deem you derelict in your duties.”

Now, this was more like it!  Do not worry, my dear, all will be taken care of.  Do not fret, my dear, the wedding will proceed perfectly without you having to overexert yourself.  All you need do, my dear, is relax and enjoy yourself.  Pompous prat.  He wasn’t useless.  Weedy and a partial invalid, maybe, but _not_ useless.

      “Yes, ma’am.  You can count on me.”

      “Then, that’s settled.  Oh!  And another thing… if Gordon behaves abominably, which is absolutely assured, do overcome your good British manners and roll over his foot.”

      “He’ll limp for a week.”

      “Excellent.  Now… and believe me I am ecstatic that Arthur will only have one wedding so I may dispense with this sort of thing for the remainder of my life… I feel the need to thank you for what you have done for Arthur.”

Lestrade blinked in surprise, then a few more times to clear away the confusion, kicking himself mentally that it wasn’t working.

      “Done _for_ Arthur?  I think you have that wrong way around.  It’s _me_ who has to thank _Arthur_ and I do that every chance I get.  He saved my life.  He went beyond what anybody might reasonably expect and kept trying to keep me on the planet and that is something I will _never_ forget, nor ever be able to fully repay him for.”

      “As is right and proper, I’m sure, however… though it was not specifically your doing, the event in question gave Arthur something he has never experienced, a chance to prove himself.  No help, no one to get him sorted or step in when he’s made a mess of things.  It was all on his shoulders and he more than rose to the occasion, quite, I expect, to his immense astonishment.  Arthur is and always will be Arthur, but, he knows now that what _Arthur_ is exceeds what he formerly believed and that is a gift… and that gift is one on which I cannot put a price because I _worry_ about him.  I have worried about him since he was born and that worry will plague me until the end of my days, but… it is a tiny bit less now, and that is a blessing I shall not overlook.  My little Arthur is a man and one who will not find himself crushed by the weight of this ghastly world because he _can_ rise above it and carry on.  For that… I thank you.  And, in return, you will, of course, do me the courtesy of never mentioning this conversation again, else your bullet holes will not be the worst insults your body will have to endure.”

      “What conversation?”

      “My distaste for you is waning slightly.”

      “I’m honored.”

      “You should be.  In any case, since it seems that only you are the only normal person among Arthur’s London street gang, besides that little doctor, it falls on you to ensure that when Arthur visits, things go well for him.  I trust that, in this, you also shall not disappoint me, correct?”

      “I will not disappoint you.  Neither will John.  We’ll make sure no matter what goes on, Arthur will have a great time and doesn’t get dragged into too much gang business.”

      “Very well.  I am now going to find my imbecilic son and turn whatever pointless plans he has for the day in a direction that will actually be productive.  You will be joining us for dinner, will you not?”

      “Yes, ma’am.  Be there will bells on.”

      “Musical entertainment will not be required.  Arthur will likely provide that on his own or we will enjoy listening to the sound of Martin’s quivering as he tries to chase a piece of asparagus around his plate.”

With no further comment, Carolyn stalked out of the room, though she closed the door softly and exhaled a large breath when she was out of sight.  That was not a meeting she had looked forward to because she still had a bad night, now and again, when she woke from a dream where there was no man in that bed and no son waiting to be married.  Where her house was empty for a far different reason and… well, enough of that.  There was work to be done and if she wasn’t keeping her eye on things, done it certainly would not be.  And… if nobody else was going to make that Lestrade person feel as if he was an active part of this chaos, then that was another thing she would happily take the reins to do.  Ridiculous males… they had naught for brains when it came to understanding the important things in life.  Luckily for them, they knew her…

__________

Lestrade stared at the closed door for a long moment, then reached over for his mobile and played with that for a longer moment before tapping out a series of numbers and waiting for the response.

      “Gregory?  Is everything alright, my dear?”

Yeah, it was still there.  The ‘I’m terrified of saying or doing anything right now to piss you off further’ tone that had been satisfying earlier, but now… god, he was an infant…

      “Yes, it is.  And I want that to be the first thing you understand.  It _is_ alright.  I’ve pulled out the oak tree that got lodged up my arse and want to apologize for how I treated you because of it.  I was rude and immature and not at all fair to you and I _am_ sorry for that.”

That was in no manner what Mycroft had expected to hear, but his heart began to beat a little stronger because of it.  He had been so stupid!  Presenting his beloved with his new suit and offering not a kind or uplifting explanation, but the truth.  And the truth not stated in the most gentle of terms, but rather, in the forthright manner of someone who assumes another is currently thinking along similar lines.  Which was certainly not true for his fiancé.  And pointing out that the vigor with which Gregory was protesting was actually a promising sign of health was not something he again would be doing.  It was only the lack of nearby items to throw that had saved his head a most savage bruising.

      “You have nothing for which to apologize, Gregory.  The fault was mine for being most insensitive and your anger was entirely justified.”

      “No, it wasn’t.  At least not to that degree.  I overreacted and rather than just be irritated, I let it explode into something out of proportion.”

      “If that is the case, then I will accept your apology on the condition that you accept mine, for it is wholly sincere one and one I offer both freely and eagerly.”

      “It’s a deal.  Now, do you think your forgiveness might stretch far enough to do me a favor?”

Favor?  Did his partner believe that there was ever a pretense required for a favor?  For that which gave him an amount of pleasure greater than all the gold in any vault in Britain?

      “You have but to ask and it shall be done.”

      “Yes!  Ok, I need a wheelchair.”

Oh no… his Gregory had suffered some form of mental debilitation and was now suffering from muddled thoughts.  He would need to inform John and Sherrinford immediately.

      “My love… not to be difficult, but… you already posses a wheelchair.  Two, in fact.”

      “True, but not one with a motor on it.”

Oh.  That was unexpected.  An interesting…

      “A motorized vehicle?”

      “I’m going to need one for tomorrow.”

Very interesting and equally as confusing…

      “Gregory… you have simply to enjoy the day and the happiness it brings.  I was going to suggest, though I did reconsider, that you attend in your reclining chair so the length of the celebration would not overstress you, however…”

      “I know what you figured, but Carolyn had another idea and I like hers better.  I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow and I’m going to need to be mobile to do it.  So, can you get me something by then so I can actually do my job?  I admit I forgot those types of chairs existed, but Arthur’s mum hadn’t and it’ll be my head on a pike if I don’t step up and do my part.”

Mrs. Knapp-Shappey… was the woman mad?  His Gregory could have no tasks to perform!  He was… in a condition that would not be mentioned aloud lest the negotiated truce fall apart in a loud and violent manner.

      “And, may I ask what you have been assigned to do?”

      “All sorts of things!  Show people to their seats, make sure everyone’s behaving themselves, keep an eye on you lot so you have everything you need… I’ve got to cover the church, basically, and I can’t do that in either of my chairs unless someone’s pushing me around, which we don’t have enough hands for. So… can you?”

Ah… his lover had been provided with duties that involved nothing more strenuous than moving place to place and acting as liaison.  Perhaps Mrs. Knapp-Shappey was not as mad as he had believed, given the anticipation and hope in his darling Gregory’s voice, which was positively enthralling.  He would be an unconscionable blackguard to take that away from him and that would never do.

      “I shall have several models delivered this afternoon for you to audition.”

      “Thanks!  And it’s ok if some of them are the reclining kind.  I… I won’t mind it much if I have to pilot a tank if it keeps me in action for the whole affair.”

      “I will ensure that the full possible range of options is delivered and you may make the choice you feel is most suitable.”

      “Perfect.  Sam and John should be back by then and they’ll have their own opinions, too.  Thank you, love.  Really, this is going to be great.  Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?  Carolyn’s brought her gentleman friend along from what I heard, so that’s a new face to meet and put under your microscope.”

His beloved knew him so well.

      “I see no reason for my absence and I am greatly looking forward to the experience.”

      “Then I’ll see you later.  Love you, Mycroft.”

      “And I love you, Gregory.  With an increasing passion every day.”

With a giddy giggle still in his ears as the call was terminated, Mycroft permitted himself a large smile and a quick spin around in his chair in celebration.  He was forgiven!  And had not stepped on another landmine!  His Gregory would be comfortable, but able to make a tangible contribution to the wedding, which was undoubtedly valuable for his love’s mental health.  What a stellar turn to the day… and since his only meeting of substance was with the Americans, who had been quite naughty indeed, the remainder of the day would be stellar, as well.  And most entertaining…

__________

Arthur looked around Mycroft’s big dining room table and decided that if started a ‘happiest moments of my life’ scrapbook… well, he’d need a lot of scrapbooks!  This was the second big dinner with his London and Fitton family and this one was even more special since Greg and Herc and Doctor Sam weren’t at the first one, but they were here now, smiling and laughing with everyone else.  And this was the last dinner with him and Skip not being husbands.  The next dinner would be the first with them _as_ husbands and _first_ means there are more to come and that was the very best part of it all.  There’d be lots of dinners and breakfasts and lunches.  And visits and cases and doctor-assisting.  And chats and films and puppet shows and crafts and… everything.  And it would be the most brilliant everything ever because he’d share it with the people who were here, celebrating his and Skip’s wedding.  And, really… what could be more brilliant than that?  Nothing.  Nothing could.  And, actually, he was more than alright with that…


	26. Chapter 26

      “Ok. But why?”

Sherlock wondered if murder by boutonniere pin had already made its way into the annals of crime or if he would be credited as the first perpetrator to use the method.

      “Just because Lestrade has a fleet of motorized wheelchairs for his examination, it does not mean there is sufficient time to establish a race course for you to compete.”

      “But a _little_ race?  There’s easily one for everyone and… oh!  I know!  There’s not a lot of traffic on the street, so we could…”

Mycroft knew more than a few ways to incapacitate an opponent with a tie, but, since Arthur’s tie was positively exquisite, he simply didn’t have the heart to go through with any of the time-honored tactics.  How his tailor had found fabric in the most sedate and sober blue, yet decorated with tiny smiling clouds would forever, and happily, remain a secret.  Only the most presumptuous guest would ever get close enough to the groom to observe there was anything other than a tasteful dotted pattern on offer, but Arthur had positively glowed seeing the result.

      “Arthur, the time between now and your exchange of vows is likely best spent seeing you fed, dressed, transported, redressed, hair combed, refed, watered, toileted and taken outside for a small, pre-ceremony shout and dance, rather than planning and executing a wheelchair race.  If you wish, however, I shall have the various devices left on the premises and you are welcome to enact your combat tomorrow.  Will that be sufficient?”

      “Yes, because John and I will not be here and cannot be conscripted into the debacle.”

      “But, Mr. Sherlock, it’ll be fun!  And, yes, Mycroft, that _will_ be sufficient.  I can decorate each one of them, just like they do race cars, and we can have races and obstacle courses.  I’ll talk to Greg because he’ll be an expert by then and will know what will be most brilliant thing to do and what not to do so everyone falls over and has an accident.”

An idea which put a small smile on Mycroft’s face, because watching his fiancé learn to successfully pilot the sizeable chair he had chosen had been quite amusing.  Fortunately, his Gregory thought so, too.  The removal of all costly breakables had certainly been an inspired thought…

      “I am certain Gregory will be most happy to share his vast experience with those who are interested.  Now…”

Ah, yes.  The every-ten-minute pounding on the door by a nervous Martin who seemed unable to shake the belief that Arthur was planning a last-minute escape through a window.

      “Skip… I know that’s you and we’ve had a little chat about this, haven’t we?”

      “Yes, and I still don’t understand why I can’t come in.”

      “It’s the law.  I’m sorry, Skip, but it is.  We’ve seen it in every single film where a couple gets married.  You can’t see me before the wedding and I’m not going to have to tell the guests that the wedding has to be postponed because Greg has to drive to the police station to try and have you released.  His chair isn’t very fast and it would take a long time even if the jail is only on the other side of the village from the church.”

      “Arthur… it’s not a law.  And it’s the _bride_ the groom isn’t supposed to see, so it doesn’t apply to us anyway.”

      “Well, that’s silly.  Why should a lady bride have to stay unseen when a man bride doesn’t have to?  I think it’s a bit unfair, actually, and you know very well how I feel about unfairness.”

      “But… I just want to give you a kiss.”

      “Oh… I do like kisses.  Ah ha!  You’re trying to trick me into opening the door aren’t you?  Yes, you are, because both Mr. Sherlock and Mycroft are nodding, so I know I’m right.  Shame on you, Skip, trying to trick me on our wedding day.”

      “Arthur, just… hey!”

Sam’s muffled ‘Lying little fuck.  See if I let you have a bathroom break again after this, buster’ actually put a smile on Sherlock’s face, as did the unmistakable sound of Martin being dragged away by an irritated groom minder.  For so many reasons, he was happy he had been assigned Arthur duty.

      “And, now that Sherrinford has matters in hand… at least for the moment… let us continue putting together your wardrobe.  Sherlock, the socks.”

Which were handled by the detective as if they were made of plutonium, but Mycroft merely smiled at the one additional bit of whimsy and his personal gift to this particular groom.  Custom woven socks in the same blue as Arthur’s tie, but well provided with clouds, airplanes and polar bears, in a crisp white to match the clouds on said tie.  The dear boy had needed a small sit down after opening the box.

      “I almost hate to wear my shoes because people won’t see very much of my socks, but I’m going to make a point to show them to everyone after the wedding so they can see how brilliant they are.”

      “Stuffing Mycroft’s ego is as disastrous as stuffing his mouth, Arthur.  Avoid both for all our sakes, if you please.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  As always your input is highly valued.  And, on the off chance you lose your shoes, Arthur, I have had another pair of socks made so that you may dance the night away in your stocking feet and have an unsullied pair awaiting you for post-wedding wear.”

      “BRILLIANT!  What a smashing idea!  I love dancing in my socks.  And not in my socks.  And in shoes.  I just love dancing, really.  This is going to be…”

Mycroft braced for another of Arthur’s many wedding-day hugs and was, as always, happy he had decided to spend the morning sans jacket to keep it pristine for the ceremony itself.

      “I am delighted you are viewing your experience with anticipation.  Now, let us find said shoes and look towards moving you in the direction of the church, shall we?  It is not too great a drive, however, I am certain we desire to leave ourselves an abundance of time to make the trip and tend to the last-minute touches on your appearance.”

And partake of the stops Arthur would likely insist upon for a beverage, snack, photo opportunity or whatnot.  The wedding wasn’t for hours, but it would still undoubtedly be a race to get the groom to the altar at the appointed time.  Already Mycroft could see Sherlock girding his mental loins for the challenge.  However, truth be told, his brother was behaving beautifully today, by the special measuring standard used for Sherlock’s behavior, so this truly was a day of days.

      “Yes!  Shoes.  They’re probably under my pillow, so I’ll just have a look…”

Truly, a day of days…

__________

      “You sneak out on me again and I’ll blister your bottom, you miserable Strawberry Shortcake doll.”

      “I just want to see my fiancé for _one_ minute.  Is that too much to ask?”

      “No, no it isn’t.  However, Captain Crieff, your purported ‘one minute’ is likely to grow much like an invasive weed and we shall never complete the required donning of your wedding costume.”

      “I can dress myself, Douglas.”

      “Really?  I haven’t seen any evidence of that.  You stand before Sherry and I in the shirt in which you slept, unshod… it was only due to modesty that you donned your trousers before your first rabbiting down the hallway, something which I cannot fathom, because an unshaven, pants-clad wild Crieff barreling along would certainly be met with hastily averted eyes by anyone not hoping to be struck blind.”

      “Very funny.”

      “I rather thought so.  Now, shall we make our twenty-fourth attempt to disinfect you and encase your trembling body in your nuptial garments or shall we simply plant you at the altar as is and hope the Lord Almighty doesn’t send a lightning bolt down to punish you for your lack of appropriate wedding attitude.”

Martin grabbed his dress shirt off the hanger and threw it on, making a ‘happy now?’ gesture, which morphed into a snarl as he remembered he was still in his Scooby Doo shirt that Arthur had found on one of their shopping excursions.

      “This is pathetic.  Martin, I hereby confiscate your free will.  Dougie, a hand?”

Sam reached under Martin’s cartoon homage and grabbed the pilot firmly, allowing Douglas to safely extract the dress shirt, then the Scooby Doo shirt and, while he was at it, Martin’s trousers which had been pulled over the pants he slept in, also adorned with Mystery Inc. members.  Now, clad only in those pants, Martin fumed at the two older men and Sam’s ‘I have had enough and you’re looking pretty poundable right now’ glare, but gave a massive, put-upon sigh and wriggled to get his cousin to loosen his grip.

      “I don’t appreciate being manhandled on my wedding day.”

      “Oh, when’s a more appropriate time, squirmy wormy, and I’ll jot that fucker right down on my calendar?”

      “The world would have been a better place if you had stayed in America.”

      “America wouldn’t agree, but that’s not important now.  What _is_ important is that you’re going to get yourself into your clothes, or, at least, enough of your clothes that we can check for any last-minute issues and kick you into the car to get you to the church.”

      “Really, Martin, this has vaulted into the arena of lunacy, which, I admit, with you isn’t a terribly impressive leap, however, you do need to focus on the task at hand and present something with a semblance of humanity to your fiancé for the ceremony.  At the moment, I would not be surprised if Arthur would question whether he was marrying a Neanderthal from your lack of appropriate attire and the malodorous waft from your unwashed person.”

      “What?”

      “Go shower, you stupid bridegroom!  Shower, then get back here to get into your clothes.  And yes, I _am_ at the point where if you don’t get moving, I’ll help you with all of that and you know how much fun you’re going to have with me taking a soapy rag to your nuts.  Go!”

That actually got Martin scrambling and Sam waited until the terminally-nervous groom was in the bathroom to drop into a chair and let out a pained groan.

      “I’m going to kill him before the day is over.”

      “Likely, but do wait until the photographs are taken.  Arthur already has an album with the spaces marked for each of the snaps he is hoping to acquire and he would be devastated if he had any blank spaces due to spousal death.”

      “Fine, but keep me away from the butter knives as much as possible.”

      “Now, now… you know well the degree of agitation associated with selling one’s soul… I mean… committing one’s self to the one you love.”

      “Not really.  I was pretty drunk at my wedding.  The wife said it was ok, as long as I was at least able to mumble the I Do part and I’m proud to say I got it on my first try, much to everyone’s disbelief.”

      “And, pray tell, why were you so drunk?”

      “Because I was shaking-in-my-shoes nervous and figured sloppy and sleepy was better than shaky and manic.”

      “Like Martin.”

      “Yeah, you do have a point.”

      “Not that we shall let him know that fact, of course.”

      “God no.  Besides, I don’t think anyone in the universe can be as nervous as Martin.  Think we should pretend to lose the rings?”

Douglas considered it for a moment because it _would_ be funny and make a good story to tell at Martin’s expense in the years to come, but since that would likely _kill_ the captain and he had just reminded his counterpart about the photo album…

      “Not now.  But, if they were to disappear from married hands at a later point…”

      “That’ll do.  Ok… we’ve gotta get him dressed, to the church, keep him away from Arthur since Arthur’s gone all Woman’s Home Journal Wedding Section on us and see that the I Do’s proceed without an alien invasion or arrival of the Apocalypse.  I think the last one is going to be the easiest.”

      “Unfortunate, but true.”

      “I need a drink.”

      “Juice or tea?”

      “Booze.”

      “Not on offer, I’m afraid.  I think his lord and majesty actually had the contents of his spirits cellar locked and barred for today’s events.”

      “Phooey.  I hate everything.  Weddings, especially.”

      “Then aren’t we lucky no woman in her right mind would marry you.”

      “My personality _is_ a community service, isn’t it?”

      “And we are eternally thankful for it.”

__________

      “Stop it.”

      “Nope.”

      “Are you a child?”

      “Right now I am.  A child with their own assault vehicle.”

Lestrade powered forward and into John another time, making all appropriate sound effects, when he wasn’t giggling at his newfound power.

      “You know, this is _not_ why Mycroft got you that chair.”

      “Fringe benefit.  Besides I need the practice.”

      “The only practice you’re getting is running into _me_.  I don’t see how that’s helpful.”

      “It’s not my fault you have no creativity.  And, besides, I’m only tapping you.  That takes skill.”

John sighed and endured another collision, but couldn’t help but feel happy for his friend.  He and Sam had nearly fallen over backward hearing the new wheelchair plan, but, since their patient was actually pushing for it, neither of them raised any objections and crossed all twenty fingers that when the chairs arrived last night, Lestrade wouldn’t suddenly take a downturn.  He hadn’t.  What he _had_ done was drop right into the most intimidating looking one and, after a quick wheel around the sitting room and kitchen, headed for the front door, with Mycroft racing behind him carrying gloves and a hat for their impromptu evening stroll.  One that lasted a good long while…

      “The only skill you have is taking up space.  And with the Death Star, you’re taking up a _lot_.”

      “Arthur wants to put flowers all over it, but I think that would spoil the look.”

      “I bet Mycroft can find some blood red roses to festoon your killing machine.”

      “That would be the most amazing thing in the world.”

      “No, the most amazing thing in the world would be you actually getting dressed so we can get to the church.”

      “There’s loads of time yet.”

      “No, there really isn’t when you think about what it’s going to take to get this to happen properly and we should take a look at the status of the reception, too.  We’re not assigned to a specific groom, so the other things fall to us.”

      “How many batteries did Mycroft lay in for me?”

      “Enough to power a nuclear power plant, I think.”

      “Wouldn’t that be redundant?”

      “Science was never my best subject.”

      “Something your patients would love to know.  Anyway, if Mycroft’s got me powered, I should be able to do all that and run you over like a field of grass.”

Which prompted a proud V-8 rev and another crash into John, who considered falling into Lestrade’s lap, since that was the one place he was safe from being a target for Mad Max.

      “Get dressed and I won’t pay attention to how much champagne you drink today.”

      “Really?”

      “If I’m lucky, you’ll be done for drunk driving and I won’t have to see you anymore.”

      “Harsh.  But I do admit it would be like me to roll along the road waving like the Queen with one hand and drinking my champagne with the other.  Luckily, Mycroft will get me out of the jam.  Most likely in time to see the cake cut.”

      “You’re probably right.  But can’t we please get you into your suit?  It really is a nice suit and you’re going to look good in it.”

      “Trying to flatter me into getting dressed?”

      “Trying to keep you distracted so you don’t drive into me again.”

      “Oh fine.  You’re a boring target anyway.”

John made the appropriately-grateful finger gesture, then helped Lestrade out of the chair to start the long process of getting him dressed.  Damn Mycroft and his three-piece suit obsession.  And he’d received a proper lecture on how to manage the DI’s grooming and hair styling _from_ Mycroft, which was a true joy, along with an implied threat about the status of his citizenship if something was amiss at the point of the at-church inspection.  But, what was a wedding without some degree of jeopardy?  Really, for this particular wedding, the threat of deportation was the smallest possible bump in the road…

__________

      “More tea, Carolyn?”

      “Yes, please.  And another strawberry.”

      “They _are_ quite nice this morning.  What time to do we have to be at the church?”

      “Oh, not for two hours yet, at the earliest.  Just time enough for a massage, I think.”

      “Or a little time in the hot tub?”

      “For heaven’s sake, Herc, don’t trouble me with decisions today.  It’s Arthur’s wedding, which is enough trouble on its own.  But… do you think we _can_ squeeze in a half-hour in the hot tub before my massage?”

      “I don’t see why not.  It’s not as if the wedding can start without you.”

      “Not if they know what is good for them.  Now, another strawberry?  And with just a bit more cream this time.”

      “Chocolate, too?”

      “Oh why not.  It’s not every day my son gets married.”

__________

      “The church!”

Arthur nearly completed the journey to the altar through flight as he bounded forward seeing the small chapel through the windscreen.

      “Yes, and how welcoming it looks.”

      “It does, doesn’t it, Mycroft?  What do you think, Mr. Sherlock?”

      “Its appearance is exactly the same as when we were forced here to pantomime your ceremony.”

      “Exactly!  It was so lovely then and it’s still lovely.”

Mycroft checked his watch and felt a spark of pride that his estimate for arrival time was spot on.  The drive had taken an age due to the number of stops required and spontaneous eruption of photo opportunities.  It was amazing how many individuals were happy take a photo with one of the grooms when Arthur announced he was on the way to his wedding.  Arthur’s wedding album would be filled with a vast cross section of London’s citizenry wishing him well and waving while Arthur bought a pastry, a magazine or a pinwheel.  And Sherlock had positively seethed with annoyance through it all, which was a delight on its own.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t a second after the car stopped that Arthur was out and running towards the door, leaving Mycroft to shove Sherlock into following, it having been pressed upon the youngest Holmes that, as one of the best men, he was responsible for keeping close watch on his charge and, in the event of an occurrence that kept Arthur from making his vows, _he_ would have to step in and marry Martin in Arthur’s place.  And it was quite the show of solidarity that the remainder of the wedding party upheld the story in its entirety, to Sherlock’s teeth-gnashing displeasure.

      “Oh, Mr. Sherlock… it’s beautiful.”

Arthur felt his eyes welling with tears and Sherlock pulled out one of the hundred tissues he had on his person to pass to the steward.

      “If there was a flower afterlife, I would suppose it would look much like this.”

Countless flower arrangements decorated the chapel, moderated in color and… exuberance… by several pairs of monitoring eyes.

      “It would.  It really would.  All the happy flowers in flower heaven where they never wilt, even if you forget to water them for a bit.”

      “And merrily shall they stand in watch over your nuptials.”

      “Mycroft!  Brilliant!  Stand by Mr. Sherlock.”

And another round of photographs began with the flowers as backdrop, which Mycroft strategically used to move Arthur closer and closer to the room set aside for the pre-ceremony preparations and into which Sherlock dragged the groom, locking the door behind them.

      “Oh.  I’m captured.”

      “Very good.  Now, we have some items to attend to, mostly repairs to your appearance from the drive, and, then, I thought we might spend some time with your video collection while we await the trumpeting of commencement.”

      “Yes!  Wonderful!  That’s a great idea, Mycroft.  I’ve got lots of films and shows that would be perfect for today.”

      “Excellent, then… oh, do pardon me.”

Since it was his personal mobile ringing, Mycroft smiled while answering it and was rewarded with the one voice he was most hoping to hear.

      “Since I know the other car on the train is behind us, I suspect someone tall and gorgeous is hiding in this chapel somewhere.”

      “And your suspicions would be warranted, my dear.  We have sequestered Arthur away for the time being, but do feel free to visit if you would like.”

      “In a bit.  I’m taking in the vast flowery splendor at the moment.”

      “It _is_ majestic, isn’t it?”

      “That’s one way to put it.  I also want a little time to try maneuvering around in my chair.  Can’t go knocking over the majestic flowers trying to show guests to their seats.”

      “That _would_ tragically mar the botanical tableau.”

      “And we can’t have that on a day like today.  So, I’ll find you soon, or you can come out of your burrow and find me.  Either way, my spot’s already been marked for the ceremony, so we’ll be able to hold hands the whole time our little boys are getting married.”

Lestrade’s grin blazed brightly because he just knew Mycroft was having a little moment on the other end of the line.  His fiancé was as proud as any father of the groom could be and that was something so special, he couldn’t begin to describe it.  Maybe, one day, they could have a talk… after all, it wasn’t that strange anymore to start a family later in life.  His Mycroft would positively shine if they had a child of their own and… well, he wouldn’t exactly object to the idea.  But that was all _one day_.  Today, it was about the other kids in the family… and this day was going to be phenomenal.

      “I greatly look forward to it.”

      “Ok, then John and I are going to look things over and I’ll get a little practice with my tank.  When you want to come out for a visit, you know where we’ll be.”

That he did.  And one day, perhaps, his Gregory would be in a similar quaint chapel awaiting him for a vastly different reason.  A reason that would bring to his life the entirety of the love they shared and his lover forever into his arms.  However, that was _one day_.  Today was purely for Arthur and Martin and this day was going to be phenomenal.

__________

      “Oh god… Arthur’s here.”

Sam rolled his eyes and Douglas patted his knee sympathetically.

      “Who’d you expect, dingaling?  Janis Joplin?”

      “I… I just… Arthur’s _here_.”

      “Very good, Sir.  Now, if we can also get you to the vaunted _here_ , we can use it for its appointed task.”

      “I’m… I’m just going to call him and…”

Douglas grabbed Martin’s mobile and tucked it away in his pocket.

      “None of that, I’m afraid.  We are officially in the wedding zone and all contact between you and your intended is strictly prohibited.”

      “Arthur said something to you, didn’t he?”

      “Hmmmm… there might have been some mention of gnomes and curses, but, to be honest, I was paying about as much attention as I ever do when Arthur is speaking.  Besides, where’s your sense of savoring the moment?  Indulging in the anticipation?”

      “When have you _ever_ known me to have any of that?”

      “Oh.  Well, you do have a point.”

      “Can we get out of this fucking car?  I know Skinny had wedding party booze stashed here somewhere and I need about half of it if I want to stay functional.”

      “Now, now, Sherry… the focus of the ceremony should be the happy couple and not you with a lampshade on your head.”

      “Funny you should say that.  However, the last time that happened it wasn’t actually the head on my shoulders that was wearing the lampshade.”

That was enough to get Martin moving out of the car, if only to get away from any vestiges of mental image that might be wafting in vicinity of his seat.  And, since he was in motion, he decided that continuing forward wasn’t the worst idea in the world.  It was cold, after all, and it was probably warm inside.  Arthur loved warmth.  He was probably enjoying the warmth right now, in fact.  With a bracing glass of juice in his hand and a big smile on his face.  Decidedly not quivering like a reed in the wind like someone else who shall remain nameless, which was a rather stupid thing to think since he _was_ thinking and nobody could hear him but… him.

      “Stand there long enough and some snot-nose kid will build a snowman around you.  Now, get inside and prepare for battle.  Dougie, the honor’s all yours.”

Douglas pushed Martin forward, setting him again in motion, noticing out of the corner of his eye that another car was arriving, this one porting the mother of the groom, someone who would surely send Martin into a fiery tailspin of death.  Since _he_ was officially charged with security for the unraveling pilot, avoiding the tailspin of death was paramount.  There was plenty of time for that at the reception.  The groom would certainly have to dance with the mother of the… groom… now wouldn’t he?

__________

      “Ah, Mr. Lestrade.  Good to see you being useful.”

Greg smiled at Carolyn and waved cheekily from his chair.

      “Everything is under control, as you can see.  Flowers here and in their designated places.  All grooms accounted for.  Organist clear that _two_ grooms are walking down the altar, separately, so some improvisation to extend the music is expected, but Black Sabbath is not.  Save that for dancing later.  And… there may be a bottle or two of excellent white wine with your name on it waiting in Arthur’s staging area.”

      “Hmph.  Barely adequate, but it shall do.  Now, the guests will be arriving shortly and I expect you to pack away that ridiculous nightclub grin of yours and conduct yourself with the sobriety the occasion calls for.  I am going to find my son and inspect his current state of readiness.  Notify me when the arrivals begin to… arrive.  Herc, remain here and guard that the current state of decoration on the Panzer remains intact.  Arthur’s touch is mercifully absent and I intend for it to stay that way.”

Without waiting for confirmation, Carolyn stalked off in search of her son and Lestrade contemplated finding a spray of something to fashion into a flower crown for his head.

      “Whatever you are planning, she will see you pay a thousand-fold for the insubordination, so choose wisely.”

      “Speaking from experience, Mr. Shipwright?”

      “Quite.  Watching Carolyn eviscerate idiotic lackeys is a hobby of mine.”

      “Ok.  Good to know.  Want to go check on Martin?”

      “Not really.  But I suppose it will be more enjoyable than standing here waiting for you to sign your death warrant.”

      “Really?  Cause I would think that would be a lot of fun, actually.”

      “Any other day you would be right, but since I doubt you can pilot your aircraft carrier with your hands holding your severed genitals and that would leave, likely, _me_ to perform your contracted duties, I choose to err on the side of caution.”

      “I can see why Carolyn likes you.”

      “She does have exquisite taste.”

Lestrade grinned and spun his chair in the direction of Martin, motioning Herc to follow.  This was already shaping up to be a fantastic wedding.  If someone wasn’t dancing on tabletops by the end of the day, he’d be very much surprised.  But, since that would probably be Sam… maybe it wouldn’t be so surprising, after all…

__________

      “At least you’re not clothed in harem garb and sporting a jewel in your navel.”

Carolyn cast an approving eye over Arthur’s wedding suit and made sure none of that actually showed itself to the inhabitants of the room.

      “Mum!  Isn’t this the most brilliant suit ever?  I mean, everyone has on a brilliant suit today, well, except you, but mine and Skip’s are especially brilliant.”

Arthur did a little twirl then stopped to point out all the details while Carolyn conducted a separate inspection of Sherlock and Mycroft, not that she expected them to be anything but immaculate, but any small detail awry could form the kernel for a very satisfying dressing-down.  This time, however, she was sadly disappointed.

      “I suppose I must award a passing mark, however, there is still time aplenty for you to change that Arthur Shappey and I am warning you now that any fruit, vegetable, animal or mineral stains, as well as associated rumpling will meet with my most turbulent wrath.”

      “I’m not going to ruin my suit, mum.  That wouldn’t be very nice to Mycroft’s tailor since he worked so hard making it.”

      “Very well.  And know well, Sherlock Holmes, that, as Arthur’s minder, any violations of my expectations will be taken out of your undernourished hide.”

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft, since he was smirking and still present, Carolyn having vacated the room quickly after verifying Arthur’s progress.

      “Well, dear brother, it seems your responsibilities now have a survival component.”

      “Oh!  It’s like a game, isn’t it?”

      “No, Arthur, your mother coming after me with a hatchet isn’t like a game.”

      “Well, no, not that part.  But keeping my suit clean and tidy…”

      “Also, not a game.”

      “No?”

      “No.”

      “Oh.  Well, if you’re sure…”

If Mycroft had impish leanings, he would prod the situation and revel in Sherlock’s irritation, however, there were far more important things to tend to.  It had been an age since he had seen his Detective Inspector and since his partner _did_ have impish leanings, there was no predicting what trouble he had found, left to his own devices.  Best take a moment to forestall any incipient shenanigans.  And to indulge in an utterly appropriate amount of affection, of course.  Love was in the air, was it not, and his Gregory certainly deserved his share.  Provided, of course, his newfound independence had not sent him on a small holiday from the pre-wedding chaos…

__________

      “It’s filling up fast, isn’t it?”

John looked around the church and smiled at the growing number of guests.  He’d gotten the impression from Martin that he didn’t have a robust number of friends, but between the ones he did have, Arthur’s mates, the people they’d met in London and various bits of family, this was going to be a great showing, which would make both grooms very, very happy.

      “I’m run off my feet trying to keep up with them!”

      “You’re not _on_ your feet, you stupid policeman.”

      “Semantics.  I haven’t had a moment’s peace since they started to arrive.  Carolyn does the hostessing at the door and then I get to tend to everything else.”

      “Which you love.”

      “I do, actually.  I know the extra pain medication and expensive wheelchair is really what’s making today work, but it feels good, you know?  Feels good to be a real part of things, like with the stag party.  And it’s not a made-up job just to make me feel useful; there’s only two sides to the church, but you’d think it was Buckingham Palace with people dithering about where to sit!  And then there’s giving directions to the party afterwards, showing people the loo… speaking of, I could use a trip to that myself.  Take over for me for a few minutes?”

      “Can you make it on your own?”

      “Did you really ask me that?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, then… maybe.  I was going to ask Mycroft for a little help.  Sam’s got me feeling good, but made sure to warn me that feeling good could mask a lot so I had to be careful.”

      “Sam gave good advice?  It really _is_ a special day.”

      “I was surprised, too.  Back in a moment?”

      “Go ahead.  I think I can manage to successfully get arses into pews.”

Though, why Greg was grinning at him as he motored away was a complete mystery.  Until, of course, Carolyn got John in her grip and he got his first dose of strategic seating planning.  Then there was the holding of crying babies, who, apparently, could be comforted by a ride in Lestrade’s battle cruiser, but not by a walk and jostle with a doctor.  And, not to forget, distributing tissues, locating water, answering questions about the grooms, answering questions about the reception… he was a concierge!  Luckily, the wedding was scheduled to start soon and he could just relax and watch the ceremony.  That, and cross his fingers that Sherlock stayed well-behaved and didn’t get into a verbal or actual fistfight with anyone at the altar or in the pews.  The odds were pretty good he wouldn’t, but it _had_ been a long day.  With Sherlock closeted with Mycroft…  Ok, a quick husband check when Lestrade returned from being lazy and biological was definitely in order.  And maybe a tiny bit of husband time in a perfectly appropriate fashion.  There was just something about a wedding, so why not take advantage of it by taking advantage of the person _he_ was wedded to?

__________

      “Arthur?”

      “Mycroft?”

      “It is time.”

      “Oh… is it?”

Mycroft and Sherlock both showed Arthur their watches and the steward’s face waffled between glee and nervousness until Sherlock held out Arthur’s suit jacket for a final donning before they took the walk down the aisle, something that had taken some degree of negotiation, since Martin wanted to see Arthur walk to the altar and Arthur wanted to see Martin do the same.  It was finally decided that if Martin was the first to get there and wait for Arthur, he’d probably shake so much the seams of his suit would come apart and a naked groom wasn’t exactly what the kindly reverend would appreciate having in his church.

      “Then… I’m ready.”

      “No need for any last-second juice or toilet break?”

      “No, Mycroft, I think I’m perfectly balanced between juice in and juice out.  And I’m going to take that as a sign that now is exactly the right moment to get married because how often is it you’re perfectly balanced?”

Thankful that Arthur’s logic worked in their favor, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock chose to comment, and, instead, made their own final appearance check in the mirror, all of which fell to pieces for Mycroft when Arthur gave him a long and firm hug.

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  This is most wonderful wedding ever and I want you to know that Skip and I think everything is as brilliant as brilliant can possible be.”

The middle Holmes extracted himself from Arthur’s grip and smiled warmly at the young man who had burrowed so deeply into his heart that _that_ extraction would never be possible.

      “You are most welcome.  I am simply happy that you are able to have the wedding for which you hoped.  Now, I shall go and find Gregory to take our seats.”

      “Did you see the sign I made to show Greg where to put his chair?  I left it here during the rehearsal and asked they put it in the right place.”

How could he not see the artistic marvel?  The glitter and riot of colored-paper collage announcing the reserved seat was the most vibrant thing in the chapel.

      “I did and, at last peek, it was being obeyed to the letter.”

      “Brilliant!  Then… I’ll see you soon.”

      “That you will.”

Mycroft left Sherlock and Arthur alone and, for the first time, Sherlock felt his own tendrils of nerves, not that he would ever let them show.  Stand there.  Hand over the ring.  That was all he had to do.  A nincompoop could accomplish the task.  Of course, stochastic effects could manifest at any time…

      “Are you ready, Mr. Sherlock?”

      “Should I not be asking that of you?”

      “Mycroft already did, so I know I’m ready, but he didn’t ask you so…”

      “I am and have been ready, so now might be the time to get started.  I shall find John and tell him to pass along to your mother to have the music started at her discretion.”

      “Hurray!  Music makes everything wonderful and since this is already wonderful….AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

Sherlock waited while Arthur had one final dance, then grabbed him by the hand.  They would _both_ go and find John… leaving Arthur unattended, even for a minute, was probably not the wisest idea.  At least, not until after the ceremony was over, when it would be Martin’s responsibility.  God help them all…

__________

      “Well, my dear.  It is time.”

Mycroft took his seat next to Lestrade, who had been ordered in place by Carolyn when she gave the signal to get the proverbial show on the road.

      “That it is and I… well, I couldn’t be happier for it.”

Mycroft gave his fiancé a quick check-over to satisfy himself that there were no health issues amiss and that the small bit of moisture in his Gregory’s eyes was purely his loosely-controlled emotions peeking out to take their own look at the marvel of the day.

      “Neither could I and it is a day that shall ever burn brightly in my memory.”

How could it not?  A joyful family wedding where there was nothing of convenience or advantage tainting the blessed event.  A wedding born purely of love… the second in their family, actually, which was a blessing that could not be measured.  And, on the horizon, loomed a third…

      “How’s Arthur?”

      “Ebullient, yet calm.  Which is not something, from what I have gleaned, that can be said for Martin.”

      “True.  He’s nervous as a cat over a barrel of water, but that’ll change once the ceremony starts.  It’s the waiting that’s the hard part and, with Martin, waiting means his brain has the chance to think of all the things that can go wrong.  Once we start, he won’t have a chance to dwell on any of that and… ok, it’s Martin, so he _will_ still dwell on it, but the ceremony’s nice and short, right?”

      “It was designed to be, as they say, short and sweet, specifically to minimize the chances of any of Martin’s worries actually coming to pass.”

      “Good.  More time for the party.”

Could that be a small opening of a door?  It would not be imprudent to stick in a foot and see if it might remain open for at least a few moments longer…

      “And is that what you would desire, my dear?”

      “A party?”

      “No, well, not precisely.  For… _our_ wedding.  A briefer ceremony, rather than an extended one?”

Perhaps this was not the time for such a discussion, as his Gregory did hate to weep with an audience… as he was struggling not to do now.  But, it was a grand thing to see his lover overcome by the thought of their own love and the step that lay ahead of them.

      “Oh… oh.  Look at me… it’s lucky I put a handkerchief in my pocket just in case.”

As Lestrade dabbed his eyes, Mycroft leaned over and gave him a soft kiss and a knowing smile.

      “Bastard.  And, to answer your question… I don’t actually know, really.  No, I take that back.  Something shorter and simpler would be good.  It’s not like we have anything to prove, so a simpler ceremony and then a party to end all parties to celebrate.”

      “I believe I concur.  I have sat through a number of weddings that lingered for a fortnight, it seemed, and, frankly, could never see the point.”

      “Then we’re already making plans!  And, just so you know… I very much want to marry you, Mycroft Holmes.  I love you with everything in me and being your husband is something I very, very much want.”

Now, it was Mycroft’s turn to feel the surge of emotion rise but, fortunately, he was in far better control of said emotions and did not need to reach over to borrow the handkerchief Lestrade was still clutching in his fingers.

      “And I desperately desire to marry you, as well.  It is nothing I believed I would ever do and, now, I cannot envision my future without you as my spouse.”

      “So romantic.  We’re going to have a lot of sex tonight.  Just putting you on alert.”

Mycroft swatted the DI and covered his lips to hide the giggle that was threatening to erupt.

      “I consider myself alerted.”

      “Good, because… oh.  I think we’re starting.”

So the strains of music filling the church indicated.  And both older men felt their heart stutter seeing Arthur and Sherlock coming along the aisle.  In a few minutes, it would be Martin and Douglas making that same trip.  Their little boys were getting married…

__________

Sam listened to the knock on the door, in the pre-established code for ‘wedding is a go’ and smiled widely.

      “Alright, Martin.  Looks like the ball’s rolling.”

Or, rather, Martin was rolling.  Well, it looked a little like rolling since the ginger pilot was walking round and round in a circle and it took Douglas holding out an arm for Martin to collide with to break the pattern.

      “What?  Already?”

      “Hear that, Princess?  That’s wedding music if I’ve ever heard it.  Now, if you want, you can probably sneak out and watch Arthur run up the aisle, dragging Sherlock along behind him or…”

      “No… no.  It’s important to Arthur that we do this like we planned and I’m not going to disappoint him.”

      “Excellent, Captain Crieff.  Thinking of your spouse before yourself.  Hallmark of a good marriage.”

      “Is it?  Oh… good.”

      “Martin, there’s still time to slip into that adult diaper I brought.  If you wet your pants out there…”

      “I am NOT going to wet my trousers, you… ape.  I’m simply… this is going to go alright, right?  I mean, we’ve rehearsed and I’ve… well, I’ve done quite a bit of practice on my own.  Successfully, I might add.  Mostly.  Oh god… I’m going to make a mess of things, aren’t I?”

Sam and Douglas scooped up the groom, one man per arm and dragged him out into the small corridor where he still couldn’t see Arthur, but they _could_ see John who was acting as signal man.  And when that signal came, it took every bit of Douglas’s strength to pry Martin off of Sam and get him moving in the direction of the altar.  However… once Martin caught sight of Arthur, the near-crippling anxiety vanished and it was as if there were only two people in that church – him and his fiancé.

With no real memory of making it through the rows of guests, Martin took his place beside his wildly-grinning Arthur and, even though it wasn’t traditional, gave his future husband a quick kiss on the cheek, which pleased Arthur to no end.

      “Thanks, Skip.  That actually makes me feel better, because… well, I was getting a little nervous standing here and Mr. Sherlock said we couldn’t play a game or anything to pass the time so… thanks.”

      “You’re welcome, love.  And anything I can ever do for you, I’ll do.  I promise you that.”

Arthur smiled even more widely and gave Martin his own kiss on the cheek before a discrete clearing of the throat focused the grooms back on the task at hand.  A task that had been a long time in coming…

__________

Tripped coming down aisle?  No.  Ring dropped?  No.  Vows repeated.  Yes?  Yes!  A little bit of stammering, but it was _hard_ to enunciate with a big lump in your throat.  People were crying, for heaven’s sake.  Carolyn actually looked… misty… and was allowing Herc to hold her hand in public!  And Douglas was looking… proud.  Douglas!  He was allowed a little lumpy stammering with all that going on.  Whatever he’d expected for today, this was nothing like it.  It was so much better…

__________

Didn’t the ring look brilliant on Skip’s finger?  Yes, it did.  It was the most brilliant thing in the history of… things.  And Mr. Sherlock smiled when he handed it over.  Mr. Sherlock!  Smiled!  But everyone was doing that, really.  Mum was trying to hide it, but she was as happy as he’d ever seen her.  And Mycroft and Greg… he couldn’t look at them for very long or he’d start crying because they looked so proud and happy.  Whatever he’d expected for today, and he’d expected a lot, this was nothing like it.  It was so, so much better…

__________

The guests, to the last man, held their breath as the reverend pronounced the grooms husband and husband and, while there may have been a small amount of ‘hurraying’ from the pews, it was nothing compared to the burst of joy from Arthur who made a quick show of his dancing prowess before grabbing Martin for a quick kiss and spin, with Martin’s legs nearly taking out Sherlock and Douglas who, in a moment of clairvoyance, had jumped back to leave the couple room to maneuver.

      “We’re married, Skip!”

      “Th… that we are.”

      “Oh, Skip, don’t cry.  You’ll get all red-faced and you know how much you hate that when there are people around to see.”

      “This one time, love, I really don’t care.  All I care about is you.”

Martin gave Arthur another kiss and would have given him a second one, if the two hadn’t been pulled apart by their handlers.

      “Alright, Sir, save that for your wedding night.  Now, shall we move onto Act II of the performance?  I believe there are a throng of people waiting to congratulate you.”

      “They will also pelt you with fertility symbols, which is utterly nonsensical, but Sherrinford assures me that sense is not a relevant factor in a wedding.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  Arthur… are you ready?”

      “Oh, what about our things?”

      “John and Sam are in charge of making sure nothing is left behind and Greg is going to do a look around the church to make certain none of the guests have left anything behind either, because I know you would worry about that.”

      “I would, too.  And, yes, I _am_ ready.  I, Arthur Crieff-Shappey, am very ready to go to our party and have a lovely time with my husband and all our friends and family.  Like that?  I made it sound very formal, didn’t I?”

      “You did and nobody could have done it better.  Right… right!  Shall we, then?”

Arthur didn’t wait for an answer, but grabbed Martin and began to run-walk towards the doors of the church, leaving Sherlock and Douglas to take very deep breaths and let the tension finally bleed out of their bodies.

      “Well, Dupin, despite my rather justified concerns, I’d say this went swimmingly.”

      “I, too, am somewhat amazed that we avoided all possible Martin or Arthur-prompted crises and summonings of unholy creatures, as well as thunderbolts and rains of toads.”

      “Now, we simply have to see them to the inn and ensure they survive their reception.  Should be a simple thing for experienced pilot and steward ranchers such as us.”

      “Mycroft can see to that.  He should do _something_ today besides wave around his chequebook.”

      “Hmmm… that’s not entirely unreasonable.  Sherry, too, has been perishingly useless up to this point and should make some appreciable contribution to the festivities.”

      “Then it is agreed?”

      “It is agreed.  Fancy a drink?”

      “I despise apple juice.”

      “Your loss.  But Charlemagne did provide Carolyn with a very nice supply of very nice wine to steady her nerves and I believe there is an unopened bottle remaining.”

      “After you?”

      “How polite.”

__________

      “Skip…”

      “Yes, Arthur?”

      “It’s beautiful.”

Martin gave Arthur a hug and drew his husband deeper into the space set aside for their reception.  As expected, Mycroft had indulged Arthur shamelessly and if there was a party environment more colorful, comfortable and well-provided with food and drink than this one… no, there was no use wondering, because there wasn’t.  The chocolate display alone would make a king envious…

      “It is.  And it’s absolutely appropriate, because so are you.   You are absolutely stunning, Arthur, and I am, without doubt, the luckiest man in England.”

No, that wasn’t true, because that level of beauty was just trounced by the _enhanced_ level brought on by Arthur’s delicate and rosy blush.

      “Thanks, Skip.  And look!  Everyone is starting to get drinks and nibbles and the music has started, which means dancing is going to start, too…”

Which was true, because the various droning speeches that dotted most wedding receptions had been voted off the agenda by both grooms, much to the likely speechmakers’ delight, so the party would devote itself entirely to celebrating life and love, which was far more to his and Arthur’s taste.

      “And you’re very ready for the dancing, aren’t you, Arthur.”

      “I am!  Dancing is brilliant at any time, but today… it’s Skip Brilliant plus normal Brilliant plus whatever other Brilliants exist.  And Greg rested all day in his chair, so he can even have a dance or two with Mycroft, which means _everyone_ will have the chance to dance.”

And formal , announced dances had also been voted off the schedule, so everyone could simply dance with whomever they wanted, though, there was no doubt that certain dances _would_ be had, if for no other reason than photographic purposes, and those, Martin knew, would be at various levels of comfort.  His desire to dance with Mycroft or Sherlock… or Douglas, Sam or John, for that matter, measured naught, but… well, he was only getting married once, so the torture would be short lived.  And it looked like that torture would soon begin because the dancing _was_ starting and… oh well, that’s what alcohol was for…

__________

Gordon looked around the reception room and had to admit two things.  One, it was custom-tailored for his son and, two, the bill for it all would economically cripple a small country.  There was no doubting that Mycroft Holmes adored Arthur and… that was something to keep very much in mind.  Which was why he’d made certain the man in question was watching as he approached his son for a conversation.  One that was not, much to his extreme discomfort, entirely fabricated…

      “Arthur?”

      “Oh.  Dad.  How are you?  Did you… did you like the wedding?”

      “It was short, which is always good.  And you and that… husband… of yours didn’t make a mess of things.”

Arthur blinked a little because that was far less upsetting an answer than he’d been expecting.

      “Thanks!  That was actually very important, too, because it has to be bad luck to make a mess of your own wedding!  And, now we’ve got this brilliant party and everyone’s having a brilliant time and… well, it’s just a brilliant day, isn’t it?”

      “I’d say this is exactly the type of reception I’d expect you to have and there certainly is food and alcohol aplenty.”

      “Yes!  Which was also very important.  Skip and I wanted everyone to have a grand time, so we made certain that there was food and drink that everyone would like.  And Mycroft promises it won’t run out and there will even be enough if people want to take some home with them, which I hope they do, because it’s all so yummy and who doesn’t want yummy food to bring home for a snack?  Plus, they’ll remember where they got it, so they’ll remember Skip and my wedding which is… well, that’s another brilliant thing and more brilliant things is _never_ a bad thing.”

      “I’ll make sure, then, to grab a bottle of that champagne and some chocolate.”

      “Yes!  Good.  Really, that’s good.  I’m glad you’re having a nice time, Dad.  And I’m very glad you came.  Have you talked to Mum?”

Since hell hadn’t frozen over and GERTI wasn’t in the car park ready for negotiation… no.

      “No, but that’s not really something to worry about today.  Well, it looks like your groom is hoping for another dance, so I’ll goodbye in case I don’t see you before I leave.  Lots to do, you know.”

      “Oh, yeah.  Yeah, I do know.  Thanks, Dad.  It means a lot that… well, that you’re here.”

Gordon endured one of Arthur’s crushing hugs and thanked his stars that his son sped off afterwards because another of them would have broken a few ribs.  This was all still ridiculous, which was appropriate given it was about Arthur, but… it was probably tolerable.  Anyway, he’d sent out a few feelers and his business associates weren’t as put off about the whole business as he’d anticipated, so… tolerable.  Of course, it would be more tolerable if he could get hold of a _case_ of that champagne…

__________

      “Now, this is what I’ve been waiting for.”

John pulled Sherlock closer and smiled as the pair swayed to the music.

      “This is what _I’ve_ been avoiding.”

      “You’re a magnificent dancer and you love to show off, so I think you’re lying.”

Maybe a little, but Sherlock refused to admit it when there was no pressing reason to do so.

      “Think what you will.  It is not worth my effort to rebut your contention.”

      “That’s what I thought.  A big lie.  But that’s ok, because you’re lying while dancing, so I get what I wanted anyway.  And you did a good job today, Sherlock.  Not one problem in the whole process of getting Arthur to and from the altar.”

      “My skill set is a versatile one.”

      “That it is.  And, now, you get your reward.  No responsibilities but having a nice time, or, at least, watching me have a nice time and then we shed these suits for a bit of our own party.”

      “Is that a reference to sex?”

      “It is.”

      “Then, that is acceptable.”

      “I thought you’d think so.  It’s going to be awhile though, so don’t get any ideas.”

      “Such as?”

      “Oh… having a quick and hot encounter with me in a quiet corner away from prying eyes.”

      “Do you know where such a corner might be found?”

      “I may have surveyed the terrain when Greg and I stopped in earlier to see how the circus was going to be erected.”

      “Was that a pun?”

      “I’ll let you decide that.”

      “Then decide I will.  Why are we still here?”

      “Dance me over there towards that door and don’t let Mycroft catch us.”

      “The meddlesome busybody is currently occupied feeding his fat face with chocolate.”

      “Maybe, but he’s cagey and I don’t want him finding my secret spot.  Hate to want a second round and find it otherwise occupied.”

      “Crouch down and dance quickly.”

__________

      “Are you certain you are sufficiently rested, my dear.”

      “Rested, fed, boozed… now, I want a dance.  Sam and John said I could have a few, so long as they’re slow and this _is_ a slow song.”

      “It is and I would like nothing more than to share it with you in my arms.  Do be careful, however.”

Mycroft helped Lestrade out of his chair and tentatively began to escort him towards the other dancing couples.

      “Perfect.  You are perfect to dance with, Mr. Holmes.”

      “And I return the compliment with fervor, Mr. Lestrade.  I believe we have actually achieved a wedding that has circumvented the most tedious and soul-sapping elements and provided our grooms with something utterly unique in the history of matrimony – a genuinely enjoyable experience from start to, hopefully, finish.”

      “It’s the best wedding I’ve ever attended, that’s for certain.  Good job, love.  I know the boys appreciate it, too.”

Mycroft hummed in contentment, then laughed as Lestrade reached up to flick his nose.

      “I am happy I properly discharged my duty.”

      “And don’t think I didn’t see you keeping watch on Arthur’s dad.”

      “Another duty I was happy to perform.  From what I gathered, the encounter was satisfactory.”

      “So he can live another day?”

      “Maybe one.  If I am feeling generous.”

      “You’re a kind man, Mycroft.  A very kind man, indeed.  And you dance divinely.  You know… Sam found those photographs of you as a tyke having your dance lessons.  You _were_ a cute little thing.  Already had your glare perfected and everything.”

      “Ah, yes.  I wondered what been removed from my safe when I found the note saying ‘no need to dust for fingerprints because they’re mine’ affixed to it with tape.  However, since I have not had the opportunity to have an explosives expert in to verify it untampered with, I have been loath to investigate further.”

      “How many other photos do you have of when you were young?”

      “Quite a few, actually.  Sherrinford was somewhat of an enthusiast for documenting my and Sherlock’s early years, so there are a goodly number.  Would you… if you like, I shall collect them and we might spend some time looking through those memories.”

      “I definitely want that.  I have some of me when I was younger and I can throw those into the mix.  But, tell me, love… is it getting easier?  Those memories you talked about.  The ones with you and Sam.”

Mycroft cut his eyes towards his brother who was currently chatting with Herc while Carolyn danced with a terror-stricken Martin.  However, he did not have to spare much thought, or deceit, to answer his fiancé’s question.

      “It is, to my great surprise.  There will always be a well of the blackest water there, but I do believe the level of that water is diminishing.  It is… easier… now to understand Sherrinford and his thinking at the time and, though I do not condone it, the understanding makes matters far more bearable.”

      “Good.  That’s really the most I could have hoped to hear and I _am_ glad to hear it.  I suspect you and he will settle into a pattern that works for you both and keeps the fangs sheathed, so if he stops in for a visit, I don’t have to worry about donning riot gear.”

      “Though, I suspect you cut a striking figure in such vigorous garb.”

      “When I can stand the weight, you just might find out.”

      “I am a blessed man.”

      “A blessed man with a night of dancing and sex ahead of him.”

      “Doubly blessed!  Truly this is good fortune heretofore unknown to man.”

Good fortune which earned Lestrade a tender kiss and put a twinkle in Mycroft’s eye as he spied his brother and the good Doctor Watson sneaking away for a small amount of private entertainment.  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one enjoying the pleasures of one’s true love to their fullest today…

__________

      “Well, what’s the score, Dougie?”

      “I believe it is about even at this point.  You have a higher total, but I have indulged in higher quality, so that merits bonus credit.”

      “Hey!  I believe every woman is beautiful in her own right and deserves a dance with moi.”

      “Without doubt, however, you were also forced to dance with both Arthur and Martin, whereas I have successfully avoided that unhappy fate.”

      “Yeah, you’re right.  But, I’m about ready to tip that balance.  Ms. Hooper is looking especially lovely today, isn’t she?”

      “That she is, which is why she is next on my dance card.”

      “Bullshit.  I’ve seen her giving me the come-hither stare, so you are out of luck.”

      “I believe you are confusing a come-hither stare with a look of abject terror.  Pity that your eyesight is failing.  Speaks poorly for the rest of you and your rapidly aging body.”

      “Funny.  Oh, and you should see if you can find a breath mint.  Only a few people have suffered respiratory arrest talking to you so far, but the crowd’s not that big and someone is going to notice your murderous ways sooner or later.”

      “My sides… how painfully they ache from your attempts at jest.  Now… hang on a moment.  Do you see what I see?”

      “Fucking little punk!  Get away from our Ms. Hooper!  Who is he, anyway?”

      “Karl…”

      “That’s a shitty name.  Sounds Nazi-istic.”

      “He is.  The most nazi-istic ATC in aviation.”

      “We’ve gotta take him out.”

      “I quite agree.”

      “You go right, I go left?”

      “Acceptable.  And once he has been eliminated, the competition can begin again.”

      “Which you’re going to lose.”

      “The smudge on your boutinerre tells a different tale.”

      What smudge?”

Douglas ran a finger through an unattended bit of food and then across Sam’s lapel flower.

      “That one.”

While Sam plotted revenge, Douglas sprinted forward and gracefully spirited Molly away for a dance.

      “You.  Karl.  Wanna get even?”

      “That I would.  And who might you be?”

      “Your new partner in crime.  Sam’s the name… Sam the Equalizer…”

__________

The reception went on as long as everyone had predicted and it was only the need for the various staff and services to actually see their beds before dawn that guests were poured into the various vehicles Mycroft had at the ready especially _for_ pourable wedding attendees and sent on their way.

      “Well, Mycie… you threw the bash of the century.  Congratulations.”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  It _was_ a suitable event for our grooms, if I may be so bold as to say.”

      “Be as bold as you like.  This came together like clockwork and those boys are never going to forget a detail.  Now, time to get everyone home?”

      “It would be wise, yes.  I know that Arthur is hopeful of opening his gifts and that shall easily see us into morning.”

      “That’s what coffee is for.”

      “Yes.”

      “And nicotine, apparently.”

Mycroft didn’t need to look at Sam for the doctor to see guilt written all over the middle Holmes’s face.

      “I knew it!  You slid out to have smoke and didn’t invite me, you miserable prick.”

      “It was enough that Sherlock caught me and demanded one of my miniscule supply.  There was no need to add to my suffering.”

      “You’re a prince.  Kept them away from Greg, though, I hope.”

      “Of course!  I would not pollute Gregory’s lungs with such filth.”

      “Just yours.”

      “One does what one must to ensure a successful party and a happy family.”

      “Your martyrdom is noted.  Ok, I’ll grab the half that look horny and you grab the half that look sleepy.  That’ll give us one of each pair and if that’s not crowd control, I don’t know what is.”

      “You are a blight.”

      “But, a blight that will get us home so you can slip into something more comfortable.  By which, of course, I mean Greg, so that’s another thing you can moan about.  Loudly.”

Before Mycroft could fling a reply, Sam darted away, making a variety of rude gestures behind his back.  Dastardly man… but weren’t the mental images his dastardliness conjured of the most delicious variety…

__________

Arthur looked at the stack of gifts and shimmied happily from his seat on the floor next to Martin’s exhausted legs.  The captain was more than ready to have his head hit a pillow for the next week or so, but Arthur’s energy hadn’t flagged in the slightest and there was no denying the appeal of a table filled with gorgeously-wrapped gifts, all for him and his husband’s enjoyment.

      “Well, go ahead, idiot boy.  Pick a box and get going.  I have a pedicure later this morning and I shall not be denied my foot soaking for love nor money.”

Not that anyone in the room believed that for a moment because Carolyn’s attempts at keeping a stern face through the night had failed long ago.  But, it was the match Arthur’s fuse needed to make him hop up and begin opening gifts while the others indulged in copious cups of nuclear coffee and tea courtesy of Sam’s turn in the kitchen, along with the remains of the wedding cake, whose airplane theme had been the hit of the reception, especially with the assortment of cupcakes surrounding the tiered cake, each with its own individual type of aircraft crafted in sugar sitting proud as a tiny topper.  As the pile grew smaller and Arthur’s smile grew larger, he began to hit those which were the most special to him.

      “Rail passes!  Skip!  Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson got us rail passes so we can visit whenever we want or go on little holidays… this is… Brilliant!”

Arthur leapt up and gave Sherlock and John a big hug, missing Sherlock’s smug grin at John which the army doctor waved off with the hand not clutching his cup of tea.

      “Enjoy, boys.  Oh, and is that obscenely large one from Greg and Mycroft?”

Mycroft gave John the evil eye, but smirked, nonetheless, awaiting the impudent man’s downfall.

      “Oooohh… Skip, I need a little help.”

Martin woke up enough to assist Arthur taking the large and heavy box down from the gift table.

      “I… oh… Brilliant!”

Arthur reached in and began drawing out the pieces of the tea and coffee service, complete with small plates and bowls for accompaniments, all patterned in a highly unique combination of lifelike animals and flowers that had the steward gasping for breath.

      “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful!”

Mycroft grinned evilly at John and took Lestrade’s hand, planting a small kiss on his lover’s knuckles.

      “All Gregory’s idea, I must admit.  With your unquestionable talent as a host, a good tea service and… accessories… was simply a must.”

And, of course, Gregory had deemed a service for twelve of fine china, with crystal stemware and silver place settings to be extravagant.  It was alright, though… that was what anniversaries were for.

      “Even I have to admit it’s lovely.  And I know… well, Arthur and I are hopeful to have people in now and then, so we’ll definitely get use out of it.  Thank you.”

The knowledge that Martin was growing comfortable with the thought of entertaining was thanks enough for Mycroft and Lestrade, as was the hug the pilot received from his new husband.

      “We will definitely use it a _lot_.  When we’re not using our rail passes to visit London, everyone here can come to Fitton to visit us and enjoy a nice cup of tea.  Or coffee.  And biscuits.  Or sandwiches.  Or both.”

      “Moving along!”

John laughed at Sherlock’s impatience, but understood it.  Sherlock was absolutely on his best behavior, but he’d been at it for so long it was like watching a boiler getting overly hot and beginning to glow red and expand to threaten burst welds.  Definitely time to finish up before someone lost an eye from flying shards of steel.

      “I agree.  Mine and Herc’s is the _truly_ obscenely-sized box on the floor.  It may be next.”

Arthur bounded across and dragged the large box over, clapping and wiggling when he tore off the ribbon and pried open the lid.

      “Brilliant!”

Arthur pulled out the towels, washcloths, sheets and blankets, though was too slow to catch the large down duvet that Carolyn had dispatched Herc to retrieve from its hiding place in Mycroft’s study, so it bounced off his head and landed on Martin, much to Herc’s delight.

      “This is wonderful!  Oh, and sleeping is going to be even better with a comfy cloud on top of us.  It’s perfect!  And the towels have our initials on them!  Skip!  You don’t have to fret when I use your towel and hang it crookedly in the way that makes you a tiny bit loony when you see it, because I know which one is mine because it’s got my name on it, so I won’t use yours by accident!”

Something, Martin had to admit was something of a relief.  One’s bath towel should… be straight.  It was simply the way things were done.

      “Good.  And this will, hopefully, prevent any thefts from my own stocks.”

      “Thanks, Mum!  Thanks, Herc!  I promise that we won’t steal anything that you don’t say it’s ok to steal.  Which one now, Skip?”

      “Have a go at the most nicely wrapped one, Arthur.  It is from _exactly_ the person from whom you would expect the most nicely wrapped gift.”

Douglas stretched out his legs and shot a look at Sam who smiled over his coffee cup.

      “Skip! It’s the flight game you like!  Except, this one has a much nicer picture on the front of the box and looks newer.”

Martin snatched the box from Arthur and stared open-mouthed at what was, for him, the apex of recreational activities.

      “It’s the new version.”

      “And it should function quite smashingly on Arthur’s computer.  Or any that happen to be floating around in all of that mission control equipment stuffed into your current residence.”

      “I… thank you, Douglas.  This is… this is very nice of you.”

      “Oh, and keep looking, Arthur.  You might find something else in there not quite so work-related.”

Arthur dug through the tissue paper and gave a shout, pulling out his own prize.

      “I don’t have any of these!”

Arthur looked through the Lego videogames titles and felt a dance coming on, which his bum was happy to act out while he prowled through Middle Earth and the Star Wars universe.

      “Then I consider my job done.”

      “Thanks, Douglas!  This is going to be brilliant!  We have two computers right now, so Skip can play on one and I can play on the other.  I’m going to put both in the same room so we can play together, though not _together_ together, but together enough.”

Arthur’s ‘hurray!’ preceded his taking on the remainder of the gift pile until the table was empty and Mycroft was glaring full force at his inebriate brother who was, shockingly, not inebriated at the moment.

      “What?”

      “Well?”

      “Is where we get water.”

      “You know very well what well I mean, Sherrinford.”

      “Are you as tired as you sound?”

      “Oh, Doctor Sam does have a point, Mycroft.  That was a bit waggly for you.  How droopy are your eyes?”

      “My eyes are quite refreshed, thank you, Arthur.  I was simply wondering if there was something Sherrinford had forgotten.”

      “My mind’s like a steel trap.”

      “In that it is employed for disgraceful purposes, yes.”

      “Now, that wasn’t bad.  Greggy, he’s not as much of a dried-up mummy as I thought.  I owe you… what was it?”

Greg made a show of counting on his fingers, much to Mycroft’s irritation.

      “Five dollars and sixty-seven cents.”

      “Crap.  I’m tapped right now, but I’ll send Babylock to the bank tomorrow when he makes his ‘out of lube’ run to the drugstore.”

      “John and I have sufficient lubricant to last the remainder of the week and I am not your manservant.”

John joined Mycroft in the Irritated Partner’s Club and decided to add his own iron to the fire.

      “Tapped out, are we?  Could that be from all the cash you spent on Martin and Arthur’s wedding present?”

Mycroft nodded approvingly at John and fixed his idiotic older brother with the most challenging of expressions.

      “Yes, Sherrinford, do tell.  Might we see your gift to the happy couple or is it somehow invisible.”

      “Brilliant!  An invisible present!  Skip and I can walk around trying to bump into it and…”

      “Calm down, kid.  Skinny’s just trying to be a dick.  Though you think with his level of mastery, that would be way down on his to-do list for today.  Anyway, for your information, Snoogums… Arthur hasn’t opened mine yet.”

Arthur looked around the room and Martin made his own inspection, both faces settling back to stare in confusion at Sam, who decided it was time to pour himself a much-needed drink.

      “You might want to dig a little and see what you find.”

That did absolutely nothing to alleviate Martin’s confusion, but Arthur seemed to think it meant sifting through the mountain of wrapping paper and boxes and it was only by chance that Martin’s hand hit something that felt decidedly not wrapping-paper like.

      “Oh.  Is this it?”

The slightly crumpled envelope with a coffee stain covering one half was held aloft and greeted with in-stereo snorts from Mycroft and Carolyn.

      “Huh?  Oh yeah, that’s it.”

Greg patted Mycroft’s knee to temper his escalating agitation, but had to admit that if Sam didn’t have something up his sleeve, Mycroft was very likely to commit a murder in front of many witnesses.

Martin made to hand Arthur the envelope, but decided that if Arthur opened their ‘gift’ and it was something ghastly and what Sam thought was funny, Arthur should be spared having to immediately deal with the situation.  However, as he opened the envelope and pulled out the liquor store receipt, what the receipt had enclosed and, subsequently, fell into his was certainly not ghastly.  What it _was_ though, was another matter.

      “Is this a riddle of some kind?”

      “I love riddles!  What is it?”

Arthur looked into Martin’s hand and put the full force of his detective’s assistant deductive powers to the task.

      “I do believe it is a key.  Actually… I think it might be a familiar key, in fact.”

      “Yes, it should be.  It’s _my_ key.  Off my set of keys.”

      “Well, it’s not really _your_ key, Skip, because it’s the key to Mycroft’s little house.”

      “No, he got it right the first time, kid.  But, maybe he should have said ‘our’ instead of ‘my’ since he’s not a single guy anymore.”

Arthur and Martin stared at the house key while the light went on in everyone else in the room’s mind and Sam sipped his drink, counting the seconds before Martin exploded like Mount Vesuvius.  They amounted to four.

      “MYCROFT!”

The middle Holmes raised his hands in the time-honored ‘not me’ gesture and pointed at his brother, though _his_ inquiries about the availability of said property meeting with an unfortunate answer now had a very interesting basis.

      “I’m a bit confused.”

Martin wrapped an arm around Arthur and glared at Sam so hard the doctor began to worry that the pilot’s eyes would pop out of his head.

      “I hope I’m not.”

      “Calm down, Martin.  Like Arthur’s said plenty of times, it’s only a _little_ house and you’re already moved in.  It would be sorta stupid for you to have to pick up and move again.  So, Merry Christmas.  I mean, Happy Halloween.  That ain’t right.  I haven’t drunk enough today so my brain’s not working very well.”

      “If I might interject… are you telling me that I am now burdened by the continued and everlasting close proximity of my son and the gibbering monkey to whom he has pledged his troth?”

From the barely-concealed hope in Carolyn’s eyes, the answer she was counting on was easily guessed.

      “Yeah, sorry about that.  I couldn’t come up with another idea and got bored trying, anyway.”

Carolyn leaned back in her chair and let her heart slow down at its own chosen pace.  She may, just _may_ , have made inquiries about a fourth mortgage on her house to obtain the property herself, but the bank had been most rude about the subject and, anyway… it had already been purchased.  By who, though, was irrelevant… her Arthur was going to be alright.  Close by and alright.  If there was a gift to be given to _her_ today, that was surely it.

      “Skip?”

Martin squeezed Arthur tightly and let the emotional battle inside him rage out of sight.  A house.  _The_ house.  In their hands.  A done deal.  It was… it wasn’t what was supposed to happen.  Was it?  Get married and… well, he supposed it wasn’t unheard of.  Actually, he _had_ heard of it before, if he was honest.  Get married and have a house of your own as a present.  But… or not, but.  A house… the one that his husband had fallen in love with at first sight.  And, at least, it wasn’t Mycroft who paid for it.

      “It’s… it’s like this, Arthur.  This is our gift.”

      “Oh.  Well, I have to admit it’s a very nice key.  And when we don’t need it anymore, I can use it for something, like a necklace for one of our bears or…”

      “We’re not going to _not_ need it anymore, love.  Sam… apparently, Sam’s gift to us is the house.  Not just the key, but the house that goes with it.”

Arthur turned so white both Sam and John went on alert should their services be needed.

      “No.”

      “Yes.”

Arthur tuned his bleached face to Sam, who nodded, and then back to Martin who was beginning to worry about the amount of time Arthur had remained silent.  After the sonic blast that hit his ears when Arthur finally digested the situation, the pilot found himself looking back fondly on the quiet.

      “I think someone’s happy.”

      “Doctor Sam… I mean… this is… how?”

Something Mycroft would very much like to know.

      “Not telling.  I’m a man of mystery, baby.”

      “But…”

      “Congratulations, Arthur.  You and Martin deserve it and more.  Sorry it won’t have a bow on top when you get back to Fitton, but even _I’m_ not that tall.”

When Arthur skyrocketed off of the floor, Sam braced for impact and was more than a little surprised he and the chair he was sitting in didn’t fall backward onto the floor.

      “Thank you, Doctor Sam.  Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Sam gave Arthur a firm hug then drew back to wipe the tear off the steward’s face.

      “You’re welcome, kid.  And with all the great stuff you got today, you are officially moved in in style.”

      “We are!  We’ve got everything we need and can have snuggly sleeps and have people in for a visit and go off for our own visits and…”

This time Arthur’s single tear brought friends and Martin rose to retrieve his husband and start the long process of settling him down.  Fortunately, the rest of the family was happy to take up the flow of conversation and it was hours and a sunrise later before bodies made their way towards their beds.  Though, it came as no surprise to the oldest Holmes that he didn’t make it far before he was intercepted by Mycroft and Sherlock and dragged away to Mycroft’s study for their own private conversation.

      “Explain yourself.”

      “And do not attempt to dissemble.”

      “What crawled up your butts?”

Mycroft poured out a lethally-large measure of brandy and handed it to his brother, to help lubricate his tongue.

      “Oh, thanks.  But, back to your butts…”

      “You live like a transient and own less clothes than John!”

      “What’s that got to do with your butt?”

Sherlock scowled and pushed Sam until the doctor was seated on the sofa so the two younger Holmes brothers could loom over him.

      “Oh good, the vultures have arrived.”

      “Confess, Sherrinford.  I know well the state of your finances and you _cannot_ afford that property.”

Sam sipped his brandy and smiled at his younger siblings.  To him, they were knee-high and just as precious as they had been years and years ago.

      “You _think_ you know my finances, Skinny, but as we know, you’re shit for knowing much about me.  So there.”

      “Confess!”

      “If you have perpetrated some financial fraud which will ultimately leave Martin and Arthur homeless, it will not go well for you.”

      “Look at Sherlock, all protective as a mother hen.  Warms my heart.”

Mycroft considered warming his brother’s heart by running it through with a heated poker, but as that would leave quite a mess and he was fond of that sofa…

      “Sherrinford…”

      “Fine!  Fine…”

Sam motioned the other Holmes brothers to take a seat and waited until they were settled to continue.

      “Ok, so I don’t have piles of money, that much is true.  When I want more, I hunt up consulting or part-time research gigs, but… I do fine without it.”

      “That does not explain your ability to purchase a house which, though small and in an appalling area of the country, was not to be had cheaply.”

      “So, you _did_ look into buying!  I bet myself you would, Skinny, so even with Greg’s cash payment, I’ve got a good pizza and beer night funded.”

      “Sherrinford!”

      “Alright, alright…”

This time, Sam’s put-upon sigh had a heavier tone and both Sherlock and Mycroft were quick to take note of it.

      “It’s like this… when Jimmy was born, I started a college fund for him.  Or a whatever fund if he decided to do something else with his life or got a scholarship, which he _would_ have, smart little bastard that he was.  When he… when I lost him, I couldn’t stop putting money into it, no matter what else was going on in my life.  Every month, I put cash into it because if I didn’t… well, I don’t know what I thought would happen if I didn’t, but it seemed wrong.  Like I was giving up on him, somehow.  And I’ve never touched it, not once.  Told myself that I’d hold onto that money until something came up that was special.  Something that Jimmy and Laura would _want_ me to spend it on.  Not an apartment or a car or a vacation, but something that would make them proud.  Make them happy.  And, what can I say… I found it.”

Mycroft and Sherlock stared at their older brother and for once, had no idea what to say.

      “You couldn’t track it down, Mycie, because I hid that money deep so nobody, including the tax man could find it, but it was always there waiting.  Now, I can say it’s done its job.  Not the job it was intended to do, but the one it was _able_ to do when it was needed most.”

Mycroft cut eyes towards Sherlock who was scowling furiously, something he well understood.  Their brother was an infantile half-wit but… there was a heart under the inanity and it was as tender as softened butter.  Not something they would prefer to admit, but also not something they would be easily able to forget in the future.

      “I see.  Well, at least we do not have to worry that you defrauded a group of pensioners and absconded with their tea money.”

      “I’m good like that, Skinny.  Always looking out for the oldsters.”

Though, from the look in his little brother’s eyes, the sarcasm hid something Mycroft didn’t want to say and that was perfectly alright, because Mycroft never had to actually say something for his big brother to understand it perfectly.

      “I am leaving to find John.  We will be having sex, so do not disturb us unless it is absolutely necessary.”

Sherlock bolted out of the room and the remaining brothers shared a smirk at his hasty departure.  This was not Sherlock’s area of strength and he was already tired out from being helpful and productive all day.  A nice long round of fun with his husband was exactly what was called for.

      “Your turn now, Skinny.  Go and give that fiancé of yours something to put a smile on his face.“

      “Gregory does have rather specific aspirations for the remainder of our morning.”

      “I bet he does.  That’s why I topped off his meds when we got back here.”

      “He… he is not…”

      “He’s not in any danger, Mycroft, I promise you.  I’ll give him a check later and see that he rests if you need to go in to work for awhile.  So… get any ideas from today?”

      “About?”

      “Don’t play coy with me, shit weasel.”

      “If you are referring to the wedding then… yes.  We may have solidified a few notions on that score.”

      “That’s what I like to hear.  And, before you start to worry, I won’t have _too_ much fun helping with the planning.”

Well, he hadn’t been worried about that before, but now… perhaps an elopement wasn’t the worst possible option.

      “And you are _not_ going to elope.  Anyway, that’s something for another day.  Go on and snuggle up to that honey bunny of yours and I’ll close down the house.”

      “You will be staying and taking some rest, will you not.  Even with Mrs. Knapp-Shappey and Mr. Shipwright taking a room for a small respite, there are sufficient bedrooms to accommodate another guest.”

      “Thanks, I’d like that.  Goodnight, Mycroft.  Or good morning, I suppose.  I’ll see you later.”

Mycroft thought he should say something to acknowledge what his brother did for Martin and Arthur, but knew from Sam’s expression that just thinking about it had telegraphed his intent to his brother, rendering words unnecessary.  Now and then the buffoon made himself convenient.

      “Yes.  Good day to you and I will expect you to verify Gregory’s wellbeing at the earliest possible opportunity.”

      “Just not too early, right?”

      “Perish the thought.”

Sam laughed as Mycroft left the study, then propped his feet up on the sofa and let his body relax.  Mycie and Sherlock had done themselves proud today.  Pulled together and gave the newest members of the family a dream wedding.  Now, they just had to get another dream wedding underway and he _did_ have some ideas about that one.  Discussions would begin with Greg, John and Douglas as soon as the happy couple made their announcement.  And John and Sherlock made their announcement, which would, hopefully, happen sooner rather than later.  Good grief… you’d think his family had a talent for secrets…


	27. Chapter 27

      “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Martin smiled and watched his husband race from the car to their front door.  _Their_ front door.  Of _their_ house.  It had been a brutal process prying Arthur away from his London family, but the lure of returning here for the start of their quiet, home-bound honeymoon finally won the day and they were able to bundle him into the various vehicles required to port them and their wedding gifts back to Fitton.

      “Well?  Are you going to sit here or are you going to go and make certain my son doesn’t reduce to rubble the _one_ good thing to come out of this ridiculous wedding business.”

Martin glared at his new mother-in-law and felt no surprise that Carolyn simply glared back.  And did it much better.

      “Thank you, mummy dear.”

That at least had the dragon rearing back in disgust and a full-body shudder, which, for Martin, was a spectacular victory.  However, knowing how long Carolyn let other people’s victories stand, the pilot was out of the large, dark car and racing after Arthur before the count of three.

      “Well?”

      “Well, what?”

Douglas and Herc shared a look and fought the mental fight to decide who would continue the prodding.  Somehow, without words, Herc reminded Douglas of just how Snoopadoop received the full-body purple color treatment that had sent Carolyn into a rage which left everyone in her path with singed eyebrows for the next week.  Douglas, therefore, took point.

      “Are we going to sit here like Victorian orphans staring into the sweet shop window or are we going to go inside and help the incompetents… I mean… newlyweds, set up their home with their new gifts.  Someone, also, should check their food and water bowls and refresh the straw on the floor.”

      “Douglas, do be serious.  If we take but one step across that threshold, the chain reaction towards an Arthur-fueled ‘welcome home’ party will be initiated and I, for one, have no desire to be caught in that particular blast field.”

      “Fair enough.  Of course, if either of the grooms finds themselves without say, groceries or… paper goods… you know the decision between a trip into our lovely hamlet or to your house is not going to be in your favor.  And it will likely occur when you are both least expecting and least wanting it.”

Neither man missed the infinitesimally-small flash of delight that flitted across Carolyn’s face at the reminder that Arthur was still easily within cupboard–raiding distance, but wisely decided not to comment upon it for fear of their lives.

      “Oh, fine.  We shall participate in whatever ritual or ceremony Arthur believes is necessary to cleanse his hovel of black spirits and then beat a hasty retreat for more pleasant climes.  There is a very good whisky in my future and I would prefer to have that future arrive sooner than later.”

Carolyn opened the car door with all possible put-upon irritation and marched towards the house, with Herc and Douglas following along at a safe distance, while their driver and the driver of the second gift-laden vehicle began gathering luggage and wedding presents to deposit in the tiny house that didn’t quite look like it could hold all the wedding gifts.  Maybe there was a cellar…

__________

      “Oh… Skip…”

Martin made it inside just in time to give Arthur a hug and let him have his expected little cry on the comfort of his new husband’s shoulder.

      “I take it you’re still happy about the house.  If you’ve changed your mind about it, though…”

Arthur’s shocked gasp actually sucked a few of Martin’s hairs into his mouth and he had to spit them out before he could respond.

      “Changed my mind?  Skip… I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but this is the nicest little house in… well, I feel quite safe in saying that it’s the nicest little house in anywhere I have ever actually seen and since I’ve seen quite a few places, that means our little house is an especially brilliant little house and if I didn’t want to live here… well, I’d be a bit loony and don’t feel especially loony today.  Not that I’m completely certain what loony feels like, actually, but I suspect that if I’d gone loony something would tingle or wiggle or give me some sign that the loony had occurred.”

      “Then I’d say we’re officially, official owners of this brilliant and entirely non-loony little house.”

      “Hurray!”

Now, the tears were packed away and Arthur began dancing, which Martin was happy to guide into a waltz that narrowly missed the incoming houseguests.

      “Oh dear lord, it’s starting already.”

      “Mum!  What’s starting?  Is it fun?”

      “Arthur, why don’t you find your mother a cup of tea or a tumbler of scotch so we all can enjoy your first moments in Chez Crieff-Shappey.”

      “Yes!  Right!  Tea!  Brilliant idea, Douglas!  And we can all have a nice cup because we have lots of cups now and a new kettle, which gives us two, so I can make all the tea we can possibly drink!”

Arthur dashed into the kitchen while Martin weathered the various stares of his guests.

      “Why are you staring at me?  Stop that!”

The weathering, however, was not being born with grace.

      “We are simply marveling, Sir, at your newly-wedded glow.  And the fact that you were sufficiently uncaring of pesky tradition and the ceremony of the carrying over the threshold that you would risk eternal ill-fortune and misadventure by ignoring it altogether.”

      “Ha ha, Douglas.  Lovely of you to try and rain on Arthur and my first day in our new home.”

      “Me?  Certainly not.  But you might check the roof for leaks because your accursed state isn’t going to make life in a thunderstorm a great deal of fun.”

      “WHAT!  CURSE!  Skip, what did you do?  I was only in the kitchen long enough to put water in the kettle and when I come back to see what kind of tea everyone wants and you gotten yourself cursed.  Mum, you didn’t do it, did you?  That’s wouldn’t be very nice on a day like today.”

Carolyn snorted and stalked off to finish what Arthur started in the kitchen, with Herc deciding the likely trajectory of the current conversation would soon careen off the edge of the cliff and he had no desire to be anywhere but down in the valley, watching the show with a sandwich in one hand and a good cup of tea in the other.

      “Arthur, love… let’s join your mother, shall we, and forget all about any ridiculous curses.”

      “Curses aren’t ridiculous, Skip.  We’ve seen more than a few films that show very clearly how horrible it is to be cursed and now you’ve gone and gotten one!  You didn’t see a little doll or open any small chests, did you?”

The fact that Arthur actually believed any of that was possible in the four seconds of his separation from his husband was one of the very many reasons Martin loved him dearly.

      “No, none of that.  It’s just Douglas’s nonsense, so pay no attention.”

      “Douglas cursed you!  Oh… well, that makes sense.”

Douglas wasn’t certain if he should be flattered or offended.

      “I simply reminded Martin that there had been a complete failure in newlywed tradition and that the doom of the ages was preparing to have a tenting holiday on your lovely lawn.”

      “WHAT!  NO!”

Martin wondered how much additional bad luck he would suffer if he punched his best man in the face and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, no matter how great the temptation.

      “Arthur…”

      “What happened?  What didn’t happen?  Skip… the doom!”

      “Douglas, I am going to make you suffer for this for a very, very long time…”

      “Since your likely employment with our little airdot is assured for eternity, that particular future has been hounding my heels since first we met.”

      “Can we please get back to The Doom?  I think that’s really the most important thing right now.”

Arthur was actually becoming agitated and Martin sighed loudly, knowing that, as usual, the only way out was through.

      “Douglas reminded me that there had been no carrying of a body across our threshold, as _some_ people, in _some_ places, think is a wedding tradition.”

      “Yes!  I forgot about that, too!  Oh, but that means I’m cursed now and I don’t think I like that, what with just being married and not having a lot of time to enjoy being married without being cursed.  Skip!  Carry me over the threshold so we can be uncursed!”

Martin ignored Douglas’s laughter as he looked up and down his husband’s form and tried to remember just how many servings of breakfast, biscuits, crisps, glasses of juice and pieces of wedding cake Arthur had consumed today.

      “Arthur, if you but look at your… wiry… spouse, I believe you will agree that an attempt to port  his lovely bride over the threshold, would leave him unable to pilot his van, let alone an airplane, due to his two snapped legs and compressed spine.”

Before Martin could protest, symbolically, of course, because he couldn’t exactly say a similar thought hadn’t already crossed his mind, Arthur started a spirited jig and grabbed the pilot’s hand, dancing all the way to the door, which was flung open so the dance could continue out into the sunshine.

      “Come on, Skip.  Hop up.”

Martin’s pride came surging to the fore, but Arthur was well-practiced in recognizing that particular look and scooped up his husband instead, giving him a kiss on the cheek when Martin was securely in his arms.

      “Don’t worry, Skip, we’ll have this curse lifted and then have a nice cup of tea with Mum and Douglas and Herc before putting away our gifts and having a bit of a sit on the sofa with a warm, cuddly blanket.”

Since the longer they stood there, where all their new neighbors could see and wonder who in the world had moved into their neighborhood, Martin nodded and Arthur bounded through the door with a jubilant shout that was accompanied by the click of Douglas’s phone snapping a picture for posterity.

      “Hurray!  We’re uncursed!”

      “Excellent, Arthur.  Now you and Sir can spend your first day at home without the worry of dark spirits or unholy portents.”

      “Which would have very much put a raincloud over the experience, that’s for certain!”

Martin’s wriggling reminded Arthur that he still had a captain in his arms and, although that was positively brilliant, Skip could get fussy about certain things and today was not a day for fussy Skip, when happy Skip was much better for their new home.  Setting his husband down gently, Arthur gave Martin another kiss and wondered if he could ever be happier than he was right now.  Actually, he would, because his happiness was as big as it was _because_ of his Skip and he’d have Skip in his life forever now, so every day would be happy, even those that had their own bit of trouble for this reason or that.

      “Now, might we join your mother or is there another ritual we have to enact, like dancing naked under the moon or burying a turnip under a tree at dawn?”

      “Brilliant Skip!  You know how much I love dancing!”

Martin groaned and put the odds at even that any of the aforementioned neighbors looking out of their window at midnight would get an eyeful of something they wouldn’t soon forget.  And Douglas would probably be hiding in the bushes with his miserable phone to document all of it…

__________

Presents put away?  Yes!  A very nice lunch to celebrate their new house?  Yes!  Mum and Herc and Douglas being actually a little sad to leave, even though Skip said he was hallucinating?  Yes!  A comfy sofa with a fire and hot chocolate and Skip snuggled next to him?  Yes!  What a brilliant day!

      “Arthur!  If you need to dance, could you give me some warning so I can put down my drink and not wear it on myself?”

      “Sorry, Skip.  I’m just excited and I guess it spilled out a bit.”

Martin smiled and budged a little closer to his husband, certain he could feel the excitement radiating off of Arthur like rays of sunshine.

      “I’m excited, too.  I still can’t believe that this is our life now, Arthur.  Never, in my wildest dreams, did I ever think that I’d find myself, first, married to the most wonderful person in the world and, second, checked back into the Holmes sanitarium.  It’s a fantastic feeling, though, I have to admit, and I’m still agog that Mycroft and Sherlock… well, that they’ve decided to let me back _into_ that sanitarium and… seem happy I’m there.”

      “They are!  Neither one of them is very good at hiding things, so I know, absolutely for certain, that they’re happy you’re back in their lives again.”

Only for Arthur could the two most inscrutable men in the universe be nearly transparent, but his husband seemed to vibrate on the same specific Holmes frequency as Sherlock and Mycroft, so he could tune in on them like a human radio.  Arthur might get the wrong of the stick for others, but not with the Holmes brothers and Martin was more than slightly relieved that his cousins were honestly alright that.

      “And they’re especially happy they’ve got a new Holmes in the family, too, love.  Arthur Holmes Crieff-Shappey.  That’s rather a mouthful, so I hope you’re practicing to introduce yourself around Fitton.”

Though, Martin had no doubt, Arthur would happily add the Holmes designation to his passport, as well, and wave it around for everyone in the entire world to see.

      “It is!  And isn’t it grand?  All of those names because that’s all my family and who wouldn’t want as much family as they could get?”

Oh, the pilot could think of a number of individuals who would offer a very detailed and very contrary answer to answer to that question, but decided to keep that his little secret.  For Arthur, the more people to love, the better was life and there was absolutely no reason to burst his bright, colorful bubble.

      “Well, whoever they are, they have to be idiotic.”

      “I believe you’re right.  And, tomorrow, we get to tell everyone about our names and family and, oh, we have to remember to make a little trip to the shops to get a cake or two and lots of biscuits.  More tea and some fresh juice, too.”

No, don’t ask why.  Do _not_ ask why…

      “And, what might be the reason for the sugary shopping?”

      “Visiting all our neighbors!  We have to introduce ourselves to everyone and a little gift of something tasty makes everyone smile, which is what we want people to do when they think about us being their neighbor from now on.  And we should invite them to lunch or to stop in for a cup of tea, so we have to be ready for that, too.”

This was why you _never_ asked why with Arthur.  You found out.

__________

Which meant, bright and early the next morning, Martin was trudging through the shops in Fitton, loading bags with everything they needed to host the Queen in their home and, then, marching through the streets of their neighborhood, carrying fewer, but still laden, bags so Arthur could knock on every door and introduce them to the community with a smile and offer of a sweet treat.  A pie chart of the neighbors’ reactions would go along the lines of a moderate percentage of ‘huh?’ a splash of ‘hmmm” a pinch of ‘oh no’ but, to Martin’s surprise, a large slice of welcome that might have simply been British politeness, but he suspected had a core of honesty that made him feel relief for a worry he hadn’t known he had.  If their neighbors had not approved of them making a home in the area, it would have hurt Arthur terribly.  Fortunately, it appeared that their integration into their new community was going to go fairly smoothly.

      “Hurray!  That’s another person who’s going to visit today and see our house and get to have tea and snacks with Greg and Mycroft’s lovely cups and dishes.  I’m not going to say we’re having a party, Skip, but I believe we’re having a party and I’m happy we gave everything a bit of a cleaning because with all we’ll have to do to get ready, cleaning might not be at the top of the list!”

Martin smiled through gritted teeth and reminded himself that a ‘hello, here we are’ gathering happened only once and then they could go back to being the innocuous couple who lived in the small house and weren’t home as often as one might expect.  Truly, except for the occasional, unexpected Arthur-inspired frolicking, they’d be the perfect neighbors.

      “Yes, it’s smart to make a good impression on people in the immediate area so when Sam comes to visit, they’ll worry for us and immediately inform the police there’s a tramp loitering around our lawn.”

      “Skip… Doctor Sam isn’t a tramp.  Not that tramps can’t be doctors, because some might have been and had sad things happen in their lives, but I know for certain Doctor Sam has a flat, and a brilliant one, too, so that rather goes against the spirit of tramp…dom.”

Well, one could still hope.

      “Just a little joke, Arthur.  Besides I believe most tramps smell better than Sam, so that would be a fairly substantial clue.  So, can we go back home, now?”

‘Back home.’  A phrase Martin sometimes in his life had despaired of uttering beyond the context of his own small, shabby flat, but now could say with both pride and joy.

      “Yes!  I have to unpack the dishes and set out a nice table so people can nibble.  Then pick some songs to play so people can have music with their nibbles.  And we should put lots of towels in the bathroom because nibbles can make for dirty fingers and nobody wants to have dirty fingers when they might want to dance because there’s music playing.  Oh!  We did promise, also, to phone Mycroft today to tell him how things are going and if we’re unpacked and where we put our gifts, if your van still started and if there was fresh milk in the refrigerator.  You need lunch, too, because you’ve got that look in your eye that says they’ve been talking to your stomach and it is _very_ much in favor of lunch at the moment and is about ready to start speaking out about it quite loudly.  Oh, and we have to visit Mum.”

Martin had fallen asleep for most of that, but woke up at the sound of the last bit.

      “What?  Arthur, we saw your mother yesterday.”

      “And?”

      “And we saw her _yesterday_.”

      “Skip, I’m fairly certain you know that today isn’t the same as yesterday, so I’m a bit confused.”

      “My point is that we don’t have to see your mother every single day.”

      “Of course not!  When we’re flying, there will be a lot of days we don’t see her, but that’s what a phone is for.”

One slow, sucked in breath gave Martin time to remember that although Carolyn was a dragon with a taste for pilot flesh, she was also Arthur’s mother.  A mother who had been genuinely pleased that they would be living within easy walking distance of her house.

      “That’s absolutely true, but you should phone her before we visit to make certain she will actually be home or want visitors.  Your mother could have plans, you know.”

      “Mum really doesn’t make many plans.”

      “Well, with you away from home, she might decide to give it a try.”

With Arthur away from home, phoning beforehand might be a necessity, from Martin’s point of view, to prevent any accidental meeting with Herc Shipwright in an embarrassing state of dress, or lack thereof, which might leave MJN with a blind Captain.

      “Brilliant!  I’m going to keep an eye out for things Mum might like to do and make a list so I don’t forget.  I don’t think Mr. Sherlock will mind if I put my list in with my case notes, because it’s rather like a case, The Case of Mum’s New Plans, so it fits in perfectly.”

      “And I’m certain Carolyn will be grateful for it.  Now, can we please go home and get started on all of this?”

Despite his captainy fortitude, lunch was sounding particularly interesting and Martin would be grateful, himself, for a large plate of something before they were descended upon by the proverbial crows to eat their corn.

      “Yes!  And, look!  We walked all around and we’re only a street over from our house!  Let me tell you, Skip… I think this is the best possible neighborhood for our little house to be in and I’m not just saying that because we’re living here now whether the neighborhood is nice or not.  It really is lovely and the people are brilliant and I heard a lot of dogs, so Kip will have friends…”

      “Arthur, we are not getting a dog.”

      “Just a small one.”

      “No.”

      “Small and cute like you.”

      “And, again, no.”

      “But, if we don’t, who is Kit going to play with?”

      “We are not getting a cat.”

      “Just a small one.  No!  A big one.   One of those big and sleepy cats that lay on your lap and keep you warm.”

      “No.”

      “Skip, we have to or Kip will be all by himself!”

It was like a sitting on a spinning top watching the world whirl by over and over and over.  Luckily, the top was amenable to being nudged towards the house and set in motion.  Some impromptu distraction about potential flower plantings _might_ have been concocted to make the walk a content and pet-lacking one, but since Arthur didn’t comment upon it, Martin felt he had plausible deniability should he be called to answer for it at the heavenly gates.

__________

      “Arthur, my boy.  How wonderful it is to hear your voice.”

Mycroft was supremely happy he had a moment free to speak to his newest family member, as the dastardly Americans were off contemplating his rather unflinching analysis of their latest initiative in Central America.  Let them chew on their stupidity for awhile and return toothless to beg his assistance.  As was ever the case…

      “Mycroft!  I hoped you’d be free.  I know how busy you are being in charge, so I always cross my fingers very tightly when I phone, which does make tapping a bit hard, but I’ve learned to do it with my knuckles, so it’s all fine.”

      “Very efficient of you.  And how is your first official full day as a married man in your new home?”

      “It’s brilliant!  Skip and I slept a bit late, but then we did the shops and visited ALL of our neighbors to say hello and now quite a few are going to pop in to see our house and have a chat.  I’ve got my new houseguest dishes already unpacked and waiting and I just know everybody is going to be impressed.”

Especially if they happened to turn them over and see the maker, who had a reputation that was, to Mycroft’s smug satisfaction, beyond compare.  Fortunately, he had already prepared dossiers on the local citizenry in the vicinity of the newlywed’s home and it was unlikely that any of them would actually attempt to steal any of Arthur’s prizes.

      “How delightful.  Introducing one’s self to one’s neighbors is a sound strategy for building alliances.  And a party, you say?  It is quite a shame that the weather is a touch chilly for a garden party, but I am certain there will be an abundance of them once we return to warmer seasons.”

      “Yes!  Brilliant!  Just like you see on the telly with lots of flowers and everyone nibbling on yummy snacks while looking at the lovely flowers and listening to music while talking about the lovely flowers… I need to plant some flowers.”

      “One of the great joys of homeownership, I have no doubt.  I anticipate an enjoyable number of evenings for you and Martin, browsing through periodicals and catalogs for ideas and, then, the subsequent days of shopping for the perfect specimens to adorn your property.”

Failing that, of course, Mycroft already had a list of professionals to direct to create for the couple a lawn and garden that would be the envy of Fitton.  No that, was setting the bar rather low… the envy of that quadrant of the country, instead.

      “I’ve already started, actually.  I… I won’t say I hoped there was some way Skip and I could stay here, but I _hoped_ there was some way Skip and I could stay here and I saved some of Mum’s magazines and started a folder on my computer for ideas and sent away for catalogs for flowers and plants and gnomes and bird feeders and bird houses and bird baths and…”

Mycroft mentally added a few good books on bird identification and quality binoculars to his next impromptu Fitton package delivery.

      “Good.  I have full faith that spring shall find you lovingly transforming your new property to meet exactly your own unique vision.”

      “I also ordered catalogs for gloves and hats and aprons and tools and all the things you need to work outside.  Skip is going to be very cute in his gardening clothes.  I’ll send lots of pictures so don’t worry you won’t get to see how cute he is.”

Each of which would make Martin seethe with irritation nearly as intensely as _wearing_ the lovely sunhat and smock in which Arthur would dress him for their gardening adventures.

      “Excellent.  I shall treasure each one.  Now, is there anything you require for your new abode?  Is everything to your satisfaction?”

Mycroft had a pad of paper on his desk dedicated solely to conversations with Arthur where notes could be scripted to smooth any troubles and bolster any experiences the steward might choose to share.  And he had not a whit of concern about filling each page, front and back, every week of every year of his life if it kept his charges safe, happy and living the life they deserved to live.

      “Everything is brilliant!  I checked every single thing and the refrigerator works, the toilet flushes, there aren’t any creaky boards in the floors or ants in the bed and smoke doesn’t come into the house when you have a cozy fire… I haven’t found one thing that _hasn’t_ been brilliant, but I’ll tell you the moment I do.”

      “That reassures me quite nicely.  I would hate for you and Martin to have to have to worry about a silly, little problem during your honeymoon.  It is truly a time for joy and not pesky issues of maintenance and repair.”

Though occasional, well-meaning inquiries _would_ be a factor of future conversations so any problems could be dealt with quickly and efficiently, hopefully, without Martin’s rather bothersome awareness of the situation.

      “How’s Greg?  He looked so happy and sad when we left, but I’m not sure which one was the strongest.”

Oh, sad, by a rather wide margin, but his love had hidden that fact most successfully, at least from less discerning eyes.

      “He is well, thank you.  As I left this morning, in fact, he was speaking very hopefully of an evening together with a good book and a glass or two of the wine he is permitted.  However, he does miss the diversions and companionship provided by the family he loves so dearly.  I know he will be glad for every communication you share, so do see he is well-provided with them.”

      “I will!  That’s the brilliant thing, well, one of the brilliant things about my phone.  We can chat _all_ the time no matter where I am, which could be quite far away, when you think about it.  And I can send pictures and video and take him on video tours while I’m sightseeing.  You know, when… yes, I know, Skip.  No, I don’t expect you to… really, Skip, I know you know how to put biscuits on a plate because I _have_ seen you do it.  I’ve seen you put lots of things on plates, actually, so I would say you’re somewhat of an expert at it.”

Mycroft grinned at the familiar domestic theme of the interruption and was, as ever, profoundly thankful that his cousin had found the perfect match to his soul.

      “I believe your attention is needed elsewhere, my boy.  Might I bid you good day?”

      “Oh, that may be for the best.  Skip can be a bit stubborn about certain things and I think this might be one of those certain things so it’s probably smart to give him some help so stubborn doesn’t turn to fussy, which really isn’t good if we have guests coming.  Tell Greg I said hello?”

      “Of course.  I shall relay your greeting first off when I return home.  Goodbye, Arthur.  And do give my best wishes to Martin.”

      “Bye, Mycroft!  And I’ll tell Skip you wish him the very, very best.”

Arthur did a quick jig and continued the jig towards the kitchen to help his husband out of whatever mess his husband thought he was in.  His husband in his kitchen in his house… he always considered life to be a wonderful, brilliant, special, magical thing, but he hadn’t known just how wonderful, brilliant special and magical it could be until he met Skip and all the people he knew now _because_ of Skip.  One big, happy family and that was certainly worth have a dance over.  There was enough space in their little house to have a nice dance, too.  A real dance with his Skip in his arms and some of Skip’s favorite slow songs playing in the background.

      “Arthur, why are you dancing with a ghost?”

Oh.  When had he started dancing with pretend Skip?  Not that it mattered, because he could dance with the real Skip now and that was much better, in his opinion.

      “Because… it asked nicely?”

Martin shook his head and accepted Arthur’s arms reaching out for him to have a small pre-vultures-descending dance.  Of course, he made certain to direct the steps towards the kitchen so his husband could take up his share of the party planning.  The neighbors might as well get the full flavor of an Arthur Shappey special social event sooner than later because the captain had a suspicion there would be more than a few in their future.  Hopefully, with their small house, he could convince his husband to keep the guest list within the single-digit range, but… he’d just deal things one party, dinner, film night or ice cream tasting at a time.  Life was certainly going to be busy fro this point on ward, but with Arthur dancing in his arms, he couldn’t bring himself to care…

__________

      “Ugh.  Noooo….”

      “This is intolerable, John.”

      “No, it’s wonderful.  You got your adjectives mixed up.  Or is it adverbs?  You know what, I don’t care.”

John wrapped himself more tightly around Sherlock, who was trying to make his way out of bed for the fourth time since he’d wakened.

      “If it is your intention to remain in bed all day, then do the honorable thing and let me tend to important things.”

      “I’d say tending to me is a very important thing.”

      “I have suggested sex twice, however, you simply make a ‘mmmmmm’ sound and fall back to sleep.”

John laughed, but had to admit it was true.  For once, he hadn’t wanted sex with the luscious creature that was his husband, but, instead, to simply lay there and sleep the best sleep of his life.  With all the activity of the past weeks, sleep had been in somewhat short supply and sleep with his husband had been in even _shorter_ supply, so, this was heavenly.  A long lie-in where he had nothing to do but sleep and soak in Sherlock’s body heat… heavenly.  So, of course, his personal thundercloud was trying to rain on his parade.

      “Just a few more minutes?”

      “You said the same an hour ago and sixty falls beyond the accepted parameters of ‘a few.’ “

      “Sherlock, it’s far too early in the day for algebra.”

      “There was no algebra involved.”

      “See?  Can’t even get my maths right.”

      “And the time of day cannot be described as ‘early.’ “

      “It’s early for somewhere.”

      “Which isn’t here.”

      “Oh, you’re no fun.  Sometimes, the best way to spend a day is doing nothing.  Naught.  Not a single thing.  You just sleep and stretch and sleep some more.  Maybe chat a bit if you’ve got someone doing the same next to you.  By the time the sun goes down, you’re ready for a bite of dinner and then right back to bed for another round of beautiful, beautiful sleep.”

      “That is the most boring thing I have ever heard.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something later on that will be even more boring.  Can’t let a record like that stand without trying to beat it, can I?”

Sherlock groaned and tried to smother himself with his pillow, which allowed John the opportunity to further cage his husband in a tangle of limbs.

      “I shall purchase for you that ghastly jumper we saw if you release me from this torment.”

      “Hey!  It wasn’t ghastly!  It was… colorful.”

      “In that every color of the spectrum was involved in some manner, yes.  Do we have an agreement?”

      “Nooooooooooooo… but I really did like that jumper.”

      “It is a yes or no situation, John.”

      “No wiggle room at all?  How about ten more minutes and I get the jumper anyway.”

Sherlock almost agreed, then remembered how duplicitous John could be when had a mind for it.

      “No.”

      “Please?”

      “Your attempted manipulation convinces me further than your proposed ten minutes will not be adhered to.”

      “Drat.”

      “Is that a confession?”

      “No!  I saw a rat and slurred a little.”

      “If I tell Mrs. Hudson you said you saw a rat, you will regret that particular witticism.”

      “You would, too, wouldn’t you.”

      “If it achieves my ends, yes.”

      “Fine!  Fine… my one little morning to lie and sleep…”

      “It is now afternoon.”

      “My one little afternoon to lie in and sleep and you try and make me feel guilty for loving my husband so much I just want to lay next to him and cuddle all day.”

      “And, again, we have an example of attempted manipulation.”

      “You liked it though, didn’t you?”

      “… maybe.”

      “I knew it.  So how about…”

John found himself rolling off the bed after a completely treacherous shove by his spouse and Sherlock smiled widely hearing the diversity of John’s curses and insults in the aftermath.  A solid knowledge of vulgar vernacular was necessary when one sometimes had to move in less rarified sections of society.

      “… pisspot!”

      “Now that you are finished, I shall have a shower and then pay a visit to the morgue.  Molly said she had an interesting specimen for me to examine and I would rather not ask Mycroft to see to having the body exhumed because the family thwarted my plans with their annoying demands for a burial.”

      “Lovely.  How about we take care of some errands instead and let that poor citizen rest in peace.”

      “If the poor citizen had the foresight to die in a manner that interests me and with a timeframe that accommodates my schedule, it would be disrespectful to ignore their contribution to science.”

      “That was almost lovely, if it wasn’t such a blatant attempt to cover the fact that it’s all about your curiosity and nothing else.”

      “That is a lie.”

      “Want to try that again and make it convincing.”

      “No.”

      “That’s what I thought.  How about this – have your shower, come with me to the shops, which won’t take long if you actually help, don’t complain so we have security on us the entire time, and then you can have the rest of the day to yourself to play with dead people?”

Sherlock huffed loudly and crossed his arms in the most childishly peevish gesture that John had no choice but to laugh.  Especially since he knew that meant he was getting his way.

      “If I have no other choice, then I suppose I am forced to agree.”

      “The management thanks you for your cooperation.  And, if it makes you feel better, I could use a shower, too, and it would be a waste of water to run the shower twice, when we could just combine efforts.”

And there went Sherlock stalking towards the bath, leaving John to pick himself off the floor and saunter along behind.  He would, in all likelihood, never fully understand his husband, but he _was_ getting better at it and that made sharing a household a much smoother experience.  A smooth, sexy and satisfying experience…

      “John!  I am naked you are not taking advantage of it!”

Smooth, sexy, scowly and satisfying…

__________

Despite a rather extended time in the shower, Sherlock and John finally made it out of the flat, only to find their final exit blocked by their landlady, to whom John desperately hoped Sherlock didn’t repeat his joke about the rat.

      “Just the people I wanted to see!  I was thinking… oh.  Oh, Sherlock…what have you done?”

John followed Mrs. Hudson’s distressed gaze towards Sherlock’s hand and the ring that hand was sporting.  Oops.

      “It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson, you see…”

      “Don’t you worry, John, we’ll have ourselves a lovely chat and you can tell me all about it.  I don’t believe in that nonsense about men not crying, so you can let it all come out and not worry about a thing.  Beastly, _beastly_ Sherlock… throwing away the best thing in your life like our Doctor Watson…”

John found himself being dragged towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat and almost let it happen, if only to make Sherlock pay for shoving him out of bed earlier, but decided it wouldn’t be fair to their landlady and… well… they agreed to keep their secret only until Arthur and Martin were married…

      “Mrs. Hudson, I promise you, it’s alright.  Sherlock _is_ beastly, for reasons too numerous to count, but not for going off and marrying some poor fool off the streets.  The poor fool who decided to marry him, actually, was me.”

The doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out the mate to Sherlock’s ring and slipped it quickly onto his finger.

      “You… you’re married?  You and Sherlock are _married_?”

      “I know it’s hard to believe but… OW!”

Sherlock’s own yelp followed immediately and both men marveled that a woman of Mrs. Hudson’s age and build could punch like a prizefighter.

      “How dare you get married and not invite me!  Or tell me!  I am ashamed of both of you!”

Sherlock pushed John towards the distraught woman and made ‘do something’ motions that had John sighing and patting their landlady’s hand.

      “It’s not like that Mrs. Hudson.  Sherlock and I didn’t have a wedding, per se, just a stop in to sign the register and that was that.  Not a soul there but us.  And, we wanted to keep it a secret until Sherlock’s cousin’s wedding was over so we didn’t steal any of their thunder.”

      “Oh!  Oh, well that makes sense, at least.  It’s a terrible thing to outshine a couple on their happy day. I should know.  My evil sister-in-law waited until my wedding rehearsal to announce she was going to have another of her demonspawn and wasn’t that the topic of discussion for the next week, instead of my wedding.  But, you should have told _me_.  Now, when you adopt one of your own little demons, I expect to be the first one you tell, do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock and John nodded quickly and hoped that Mrs. Hudson’s motherly instincts wouldn’t mean frequent reminders that there _weren’t_ any small demons racing around the building and various brochures for adoption agencies slipped under their door.

      “We promise, Mrs. Hudson.  And, for your information, you’re the first person we’ve actually told about getting married.”

Which was true, John decided, since Sam and Mycroft hadn’t actually been told, they’d just used their bastardy witch’s powers to figure it out on their own and that didn’t count.  Something about which Sherlock was still blissfully ignorant, which was its own source of very wicked, but very well-deserved amusement, to John’s way of thinking.

      “Really?  Well, then, I suppose I can forgive you a bit more.  Now, how about a little celebration?  I’ve got scones fresh out of the oven and a lovely whisky that goes very well with scones, I’ve come to discover.   Let’s have a little sit and you can tell me all about the happy event.”

Sherlock pouted that John did not throw up a shield of errands to save them from unexpected socializing, but… Mrs. Hudson’s scones _were_ most palatable and he _was_ a tad peckish, which, he had noticed, was a common post-sex symptom that he had begun to suffer.  It was a troubling thing since he had no desire to balloon to Mycroft’s whale-like size, but he also had no intention of curtailing sex with John.  It was time to begin work on a metabolism-boosting formulation.

      “Sherlock, why is your hand in my pocket?”

      “I left my notebook upstairs and I need paper.  And a pencil.”

      “Why?”

      “Points of research.”

      “About scones?”

      “In a roundabout fashion, yes.”

      “Oh.  Well, carry on.  I have absolutely no issue with being presented with fresh scones in the morning baked by your own two hands.”

      “Are you suffering mental upset?”

      “I suppose that wishful thinking could be classed that way.”

      “I will give you money to purchase scones whenever you desire them, if that suffices.”

That wasn’t the worst compromise John had ever heard.  Especially if he could find a bakery that delivered.

      “I accept, so long as you get your hand out of my pocket before Mrs. Hudson comments and I die of embarrassment.”

      “There is nothing to be embarrassed about from my hand in your pocket.  Wait… are you implying something sexual?”

      “That’s usually a good assumption.”

      “Oh.  Then, yes.  Mrs. Hudson needs no further ammunition for her overheated imagination.”

      “Sherlock, based on what you’re doing now, I don’t think imagination comes into it.”

      “I’m looking for a pencil.”

      “There’s not a pencil in the world that size.”

      “That is rather egotistical of you.”

      “And I’ve never seen you stroke a pencil with that particular motion in all the time I’ve known you, though you do dearly love your writing utensils.”

      “I am confirming the fact that what is in my grasp is not a pencil.”

      “Perfect.   Now, I have to hide an erection from Mrs. Hudson while eating her scones and drinking her whisky.  Thank you very much for making this the most awkward day of my week.”

      “Since the week is young, I feel there is ample opportunity for that statement to be proven false.”

Oh joy, Sherlock had a challenge.  Maybe it was time to visit a few mates he had out in the countryside.  Clean air, good trails for hiking, no husband prompting erections at highly inappropriate times… was there a law that said a honeymoon _had_ to be taken with the person you married?  Maybe he’d ask Greg after he got back from hiking…

__________

After spending the afternoon eating their fill of scones and having more than a few glasses of surprisingly-good whisky, Sherlock and John were released from Mrs. Hudson’s clutches with a legion of hugs and cheek-kisses to see them on their way.  At that point, it seemed as if the dam had been opened and it was the march through the city, rings gleaming, to announce their newly-wedded state to everyone they knew.  Molly (who squealed and hugged them so hard it was a sure thing they’d sport Molly-shaped bruises in the morning), Angelo (who blubbered so much Sherlock actually found a napkin to hand him and applied a socially-acceptable two pats to the man’s back), the team at Scotland Yard (who were struck dumb and had Sherlock and John backing away slowly in case one of them snapped and ordered them tossed into a cell for mental observation) and, finally, ended staring at the gates of hell, both hoping the other would knock, though for different reasons.  John, because two people behind the gates already knew their good news and Sherlock would likely be volcanic if he learned that fact and Sherlock because dealing with both his brothers on any matter was enough to sour his stomach.

Finally, John decided to be the adult and gave the doorbell a ring, crossing his fingers that nobody was home and making a rude noise when Sam answered and made a rude noise first.

      “Oh, goody.  The asshole squad.  My night is made.”

      “As if you are engaged in anything for which interruption would be considered a detriment.  Cleaning the detritus from between your toes does not count as a productive endeavor.”

      “Babylock’s on a roll!  Must have gotten some today.  John, come in here so I can see if you’re walking funny.”

John responded by non-limpingly walking inside, making certain to step solidly on Sam’s foot as he entered the Mycroft’s and Greg’s house.

      “Thanks a lot.  I’m crippled because your butt is as fat as a pampered cat’s.”

      “You are mistaking John for Mycroft.  It must be a severe handicap to your medical career to be blind, Sherrinford.”

      “Definitely got some.  Now, what can I do for you?”

      “Why do you assume we are here to see you?”

      “Because the world revolves around me, sweetheart, so it’s sort of obvious.”

Sherlock snorted and pushed past his brother, feeling the very uncharacteristic sensation of hesitancy because, with Lestrade slightly more mobile, knowing his exact location in the house was no longer guaranteed.

      “Where is Lestrade?”

      “In the kitchen.  Skinny’s making tea and Sicky’s following him around like a dog, hoping for a treat.”

John gave Sam the ‘give me doctor’s details’ eye and the oldest Holmes made wheelchair motions, much to John’s satisfaction.  The wedding took a lot out of their patient and he was supposed to be resting as much as possible.  Being Greg, though, he wasn’t the most obedient of patients.

      “Good.  This will be easier on my bowels if John and I have to do it but once.”

Sherlock stormed away towards the kitchen and Sam pondered the reason only for the three seconds that it took for John to take his ring-wearing hand out of his pocket and give it a little wave.

      “Gotcha.  Does he know that we know?”

      “Does _we_ include Greg?”

      “Not as far as I know and I _would_ know if he knew.  We’re back to the world revolves around me, if you couldn’t guess.”

      “Prick.  But, at least, that’s one person who will be surprised.”

      “Don’t worry.  Skinny and me are prepared to react as if he says he’s joining the priesthood.  It’s all good.”

      “Oddly, I think that will make him happy.  He hasn’t really said he was ready to tell people, but… I think he’s been ready to tell people since we put on these rings.”

      “Oh, I know it’s going to ring his jinglebell.  Cocklock loves being the guy in the know and, this time, we don’t mind accommodating him.  Gotta show a little family loyalty now and then, even if it does make my tongue taste copper and grapefruit.”

John held off mentioning that even though Lestrade didn’t need a continuous medical presence, Sam had been spending more time here than at his own flat, mostly because Mycroft was having a miserable time imagining the DI without immediate access to medical care and had no problem calling his newly-found brother day or night to press him into duty.  Which Sam, tellingly, always agreed to.

      “Alright, then, let’s go.  And remember… surprise.”

      “I’ll make my O-face.  If that’s not a show of surprise, I don’t know what is.”

      “Don’t blind my husband, you stupid American.”

      “Greg’s happy to be a puppy, so you can train him as one of those seeing-eye dogs.”

      “Which Mycroft would kill me for.  That doesn’t say a lot of good things about the future of my love life.”

      “The world doesn’t need any more of your genes, so keeping The Baby from getting knocked up is a service to the world.”

      “Immediately forgetting everything you said and walking calmly to the kitchen to take part in the happy announcement of my marriage.  In fact, forgetting _you_ while I’m at it.  Ahhhh, how much lighter my brain feels…”

Sam’s rude gesture was completely ignored by John, who certainly didn’t make a similar one in response, and Sam’s own brain felt a lot lighter knowing that his littlest brother and the man he’d come to call a good friend had found the happiness they so desperately needed, and deserved, in their lives.  And, wasn’t it nice that he’d get to keep an eye on that happiness and give it some help when either of the knuckleheads did something knuckleheady to put bumps in the road.  That was what family was for, wasn’t it, and he could proudly say that he had family again after all these years.

      “Well, are you coming or should I tell Mycroft you’re out here doing something filthy with his expensive vase?”

Mushy-brain, useless family, but family, nonetheless.

__________

      “Ah, John, you have arrived.  Sherlock has been holding Gregory and me hostage and refused to issue a ransom demand until you joined him at the scene of the felony.”

      “You gave him tea, though, so he must be a considerate captor.”

      “He has remained blessedly silent, so our incarceration has been a most pleasant one.”

Sherlock’s scowl at Lestrade’s laugh warmed both of his older brothers’ hearts, especially after they finished their silent and virtually telepathic conversation that informed Mycroft of the nature of their youngest brother’s visit, something which filled Mycroft with a powerful sense of delight.

      “Stop teasing the lad, love.  We’re lucky he and John found time in their busy schedules to pay us a visit.  Without their little friends to play with, I was worried they’d forget all about us and we’d never see them again.”

      “Unfortunately, our luck is not so robust, my dear.  However, since they are here, let us make the best of it.  After all, it dilutes Sherrinford’s presence and that can only be considered a welcome thing.”

      “Fuck you with a bacon-wrapped salami, Mycroft.”

      “How do such ideas even emerge from your brain, Sherrinford?  Was there some pact made with the devil when you were born to befoul every conversation with inane and disgusting images?”

      “There is nothing inane or disgusting about bacon.  Or salami, for that matter.  Shit, now I’m hungry.”

      “ANYWAY, how about Sherlock and I get to the point of our visit.”

      “That won’t make me less hungry.  Don’t you remember anything about hunger sensations from medical school or do I need to make a PowerPoint for a review session?  It’ll have lots of pictures in it to make it all crystal clear, especially the Mycroft fucking part.”

Sherlock went to the refrigerator, took out a wedge of cheese and handed it to Sam before shoving him down into a seat at the table.

      “Eat.  John and I have an announcement and we do not wish to be interrupted by any further of your fatuousness.”

Sam opened his mouth, but Greg reached over, snatched the wrapped cheese and stuck it in the doctor’s mouth, where it happily sat while Sherlock cleared his throat, then pointed at John to start speaking.

      “Ok… well, this is… I’m sure everyone will think it’s rather sudden, though, no, it’s not actually sudden because that’s not really the right word…”

Four of the five people in the room knew what he was going to say, yet John still felt like he was telling the world for the first time.  Maybe he was a _little_ more excited about the whole business than he’d realized, but there wasn’t a thing in the world wrong with that…

      “… so let’s try unexpected, instead.  Though, it’s also probably not _entirely_ unexpected, so that’s wrong, too.”

      “Give me strength…”

      “Quiet!  You shove about enough words, Mycroft, that you have long lost the right to comment on anyone else’s verbosity.  Besides, John’s emotional state over announcing our marriage must be taken into account and any difficulty in properly phrasing his declaration politely ignored.”

Which, of course, rendered John’s verbosity moot, something that suited John to no end and it was only a second after Sherlock’s spilling-of-the-beans that the detective _realized_ his bean spilling and was nearly bowled over by Lestrade who leapt from his wheelchair to take Sherlock in the firmest hug he could safely muster.

      “Married!  How… why didn’t you tell us you were planning on getting married?  This is… when?  How?  Oh, how cares, I’m just so happy for you!  Proud, too.  Couldn’t be happier or prouder.”

Sherlock shoved down the sharp spike of emotion that rose up from the honesty and joy in Lestrade’s words and covered it by disentangling himself partially from the older man’s grip and making a show of straightening his clothes.

      “Mycroft!  They’re married!  Rings!”

Lestrade waved Sherlock’s hand around in the air and Mycroft found it harder and harder to appear surprised and not start laughing at his baby brother’s torment.

      “I am positively taken aback.  You gave no indication matrimony was on your mind, brother dear.  Given the whirlwind of the past weeks, I would have assumed you would have made _some_ comment on the issue if such was your intention.”

      “It is precisely for that reason that John and I remained silent. We did not want to distract from Martin and Arthur’s wedding with news of our own.”

      “Admirable, truly admirable.  And let me add to Gregory’s own pronouncement my best wishes and sincere congratulations.  I could not imagine a more wonderful announcement to hear from you, brother, nor you, brother-in-law.”

Sherlock snorted, but John couldn’t miss the flash of pleasure in Sherlock’s eyes if he tried.  As much as the brothers fought, Sherlock still put stock in his Mycroft’s approval and gaining it was a bright little feather in his cap.

      “Thanks, Mycroft.  Sherlock and I decided something small was more our style and, as he said, we didn’t want to take anything away from Martin and Arthur.  However, we might have a little celebration, at some point, to give everyone the chance to lift a glass and wish us well.”

      “And provide gifts.”

Sam removed the cheese from his mouth and handed it to Sherlock with a whispered, ‘buy yourself something nice with that’ as a chaser.

      “Your generosity is overwhelming, Sherrinford.”

      “Oh, I’m just being a lil’ shit.  If Greggy wasn’t hanging on to you for dear life, I’d be giving you a hug of my own and a little ass grab to show just how happy I am you finally came to your senses and tied the knot.”

This snort was the loudest yet, but John’s interpretation skills were up to the challenge of reading his husband’s satisfaction with his oldest brother’s reaction.  Sherlock was still somewhat up-in-the-air about Sam, but, at minimum, he placed some trust in his analytical ability, so, again, approval was very much something to be desired.

      “And… I think, if I wasn’t so drunk I’m not remembering things right, Mycie has a very nice pinot noir in his wine fortress that would be perfect to crack open for a preliminary glass-raising.  Mycroft, willing to spring for baby bro and John’s marriage revelation?  If not, I think I’ve got a six-pack of Bud stashed away here somewhere for emergencies.”

As if Mycroft could refuse with his fiancé beaming like a spotlight and Sherlock screaming a thousand microscopic messages of pride and satisfaction into the air.  Of course, he also owed the family simian $6.43, since Sherlock couldn’t let a week pass without letting the glad tidings escape, but that was inconsequential.  What his brother chose to do with six hundred and forty-three unrolled, American pennies, however, was quite his own business.

      “I would be honored.  My dear, if you would but take your seat again, I believe you might be medically cleared for, at least, a small glass of celebratory libation.”

Not that Lestrade wanted to let go of Sherlock for even a moment.  First, he’d moved far too quickly and got a scolding from his chest because of it, so waiting until that pain subsided wasn’t the worst possible idea and second, because… WEDDING!  After-the-fact, perhaps, but it still counted!  He wanted to hug the big, snarly pain-in-the-arse until kingdom come and let him know, in every way possible, how thrilled he was for their decision.  Married… he had laughed with Mycroft about the idea, but part of him worried Sherlock would never feel comfortable with being joined with someone, even someone he loved, so… permanently.  But, the lad had done it and the DI was positively ecstatic to be proved wrong.

      “Ass in chair, invalid, or Mycroft and John are going to get jealous about you groping, Sherly Whirly.”

      “Can’t a man even show a little happiness in this house?  Hardhearted, you lot are.  Don’t listen to them, Sherlock.  You don’t mind me groping you, do you?”

      “John, I am being accosted by an elderly, disabled man.”

      “Greg, stop molesting Sherlock.  Mycroft, go and get that wine.  Sam, sit there and shut up.  Sherlock, throw that cheese away or find some bread to go with it. I am officially in celebration mode and plan to enjoy myself regardless of who I’m celebrating with.  Though… do you think we should make a call to Fitton and spread the good news?”

All five brains processed the question and decided that the ripping of the space-time continuum from Arthur’s excitement would interfere with their relaxing glass of wine, so it could wait until a bit later. Besides, the Fitton-based family members still had their own nuptial celebration to enjoy and another day of cocooned bliss was really what was called for at this point.  Tomorrow, however, would be a different story and they could only hope that Martin was prepared to manage a frenzied husband so soon after taking his vows.  Regardless, he might as well get used to it now, because he had years ahead of him with the most excitable, life-loving person in existence.

      “Tomorrow?  Tomorrow sounds good.”

      “Excellent thinking, John.  I quite concur.  Now, if you will excuse me?”

With a gentle squeeze of the now-seated Lestrade’s shoulder, Mycroft left the kitchen and cursed his idiotic brother for actually choosing a highly-appropriate wine for the occasion.  Scurrilous cur… but at least they no longer had to affect ignorance of their third brother’s marital situation, a situation that had him nothing less than jubilant.  Of course, that left one final couple to make a happy announcement, and, soon, he would broach the subject with his dearest Gregory.  A wedding would not arrive for some time, he felt certain, but public acknowledgement of their status was something he was ferociously eager to bring about.  At minimum, it would curtail Anthea’s nosy questions, which were insidiously probing and unreservedly pointed.  Evil woman… she would definitely find herself seated in the very back of the venue when the time came to claim Gregory as his spouse.  Well, perhaps not the very back.  Her methods for revenge were as diverse, subtle and scathing as his own and entering a honeymoon with a suitcase packed with her idea of vengeance did not sit high on his hopes for the future.  Perhaps he should introduce her to Sherrinford…


	28. Chapter 28

John was a nonsensical human being and completely hypocritical in terms of marital equity.  His half of the bed should be _his_ , by the very definition, however, the esteemed Doctor Watson had declared this basic tenet invalid in a particularly-egregious act of dictatorial tantrum.  It was not as if a single speck of any of the specimens for his preservative experiments made their way onto John while he slept.  He’d been careful and used a tray for that very reason.  To evict him from the flat AND ban all experiments concerning corpses from the bed was unreasonably harsh.

Sherlock began serving his sentence by walking to purchase copies of the morning’s newspapers, but, afterwards, found himself at a loss for where to go and _read_ his papers.  The sight of a pedestrian accompanied by a grayish, scraggly dog made the decision an easy one.

__________

      “What the…John threw you out, didn’t he?”

      “That is not your business, Sherrinford.”

      “That’s a yes.  And you decided to come here and cool your heels.”

      “I require a quiet space to read the morning newspapers.  I calculated the probability of you having a hangover and, therefore, maintaining an atmosphere of silence, to be acceptably high.”

      “Funny man.  And… well, you’re sort of right, but I’m not so bad I can’t sing while I make breakfast.”

      “No.”

      “That’s not very gracious and guestlike.”

      “Your point being?”

      “True.  I forgot I was talking to you.  Well, this is some pretty shit to start my day.  Might as well as add bacon to it.”

Sam waved Sherlock into his flat and noticed that his baby brother was doing absolutely nothing to hide his disgust at being greeted by a crappy-clothes-wearing, not-showered, unshod decrepit old man like himself.  It was fantastic!

      “I can see you ogling my fine form, Sherly.  Don’t worry, there’s still a chance you’ll get a body like mine someday and not that beanpole you’ve got hiding under your coat.”

      “The only reason I would want a body like yours, Sherrinford, was if you were deceased and John gifted me with new dissection tools to demonstrate his continued love for me.”

      “I’ll put that in my will.  When I die, you get my body to play with.  Does that excuse me from any wedding presents you’re probably sniffing around for?”

      “No.”

      “Well, you’re all full of words today, aren’t you?  And shitty ones, at that.  You want breakfast?”

Sherlock was primed to refuse, then remembered he’d had nothing this morning and had engaged in sex last night, which meant his body was somewhat depleted in energy and beginning to make that particular fact known to him.

      “If it is edible, yes.”

      “You’re worse than a toddler.  But, I think I’ve got a bib in the kitchen somewhere, so you won’t get smooshed peas on your clothes, at least.”

      “No peas.”

      “Demanding!  I thought my daddy days were long behind me.  I bet you’ll whip your head around to avoid the spoon, too, when I try and feed you.”

      “Against the superstitions of the masses, I will happily bite the hand that feeds me.”

      “Testy, when, instead, you should be buttering me up to talk to John and defuse the Watson bomb.”

Sam pushed out a chair at his kitchen table and Sherlock dropped into it, while imperiously waving his hand at one of the three kettles Arthur had purchased for the flat, since he forgot twice that he’d bought one while on a previous shopping trip.

      “Nope.  Those are only for boiling water for cup o’ noodles.  There’s not a bag of those stupid leaves in this house anywhere, so you’ll get coffee and like it.”

      “I will not.”

      “That just makes it more fun for me.  Now, why did John toss your skinny ass to the curb and how long is it going to take to clean it up?”

      “John’s lack of commitment to science is a detriment, at times.”

      “That bad, huh?  Well, bring him home something pretty and that should smooth the blankets.  You want ketchup on your eggs?”

      “Are you actually human?”

      “By some definitions.  And I’ll take that as a no.  Here…”

Sam put a mug of coffee in front of his brother and Sherlock marveled that it seemed to be moving on its own and with some rudimentary degree of awareness.

      “This will erode my stomach lining.”

      “Nah, just clean out your plumbing so you won’t need to bring those newspapers of yours into the bathroom with you.  If you have to be a wussy, toss in some milk.  Actually, gimme that…”

Sherlock scowled as his brother poured his coffee into a large glass and added an unhealthy amount of sugar, milk and ice, along with a hefty squirt of chocolate syrup, the brand of which was quite familiar from many Toblerone pancake breakfasts.

      “Don’t have any whipped cream or I’d give you a mountain of that, too, my precious diapered baby.  Enjoy.”

The detective’s scowl intensified, but only until the straw that had been added to his drink met his lips and he began to indulge in his sweet treat.

      “Good.  That should keep you happy for at least 30 seconds.”

Which was long enough for Sherlock to begin opening Sam’s mail and reading the contents.

      “You are behind in your bills.”

      “Hey!  Give me that!  Nosy little fucker.”

      “Hmmmmm… no.  And more than a few, from what I discern.”

      “Stop rooting through my mail!”

Thus began the much-anticipated game of keep-away between the Holmes brothers, with Sam attempting to snatch the envelopes and Sherlock waving his arms around to keep them from his brother’s reach.

      “Little shit!”

      “But, one who is not in danger of seeing his electricity discontinued.”

      “Neither am I!  Just… just a little late sending in my last payment.  Or two.”

      “It might be a wiser expenditure of funds to pay your obligations rather than purchase more alcohol for your already overflowing cupboards.”

      “Thanks, Mom.  Don’t forget to write a note on my napkin when you pack my lunch for school.”

      “If it reminds you to take greater care with your finances, I will entrust the task to John.”

      “No!  This does not go anywhere out of this kitchen, do you hear me?”

      “If it amuses me, it will.”

      “Wrong.  You’re not going to go around blabbing about my empty wallet to anyone or…”

      “Mycroft never paid you, did he?”

Sherlock scrutinized his older brother and mentally grinned at the tiny flicker of unease in Sam’s eyes.

      “That’s… that’s not the point.  I just had other things on my mind, you know, and stuff got away from me.”

      “That you could deplete your finances with the short time you have been without your regular salary is disgraceful enough that your lies truly sour the air I am breathing.”

      “I’m not lying!  And I’m not broke.  Not entirely.  I… _may_ have had to dip into some other funds to get all of Artie and Marty’s house covered, but this bum ain’t on the skids yet.  Hey… what’re you doing?”

Sherlock’s innocent smile sent out rays of sunshine over his mobile as the tapped a Contacts button.

      “Phoning Mycroft.”

      “Fucking little tattletale!  Give me that!”

      “No.”

This round of keep-away was far more vicious than the first, and had Mycroft highly confused as he listened to the chaos, which ended with a sharp NO! and an abruptly discontinued call.

      “Love, what’s wrong?”

      “I honestly do not know.  Sherlock phoned and… the telemetry data on his mobile suggests it is no longer functional.”

      “Where is he?”

The worry in Lestrade’s voice had Mycroft running a hand through his partner’s hair to soothe his agitation.

      “He is… ah.  Sherlock is currently at Sherrinford’s residence.”

      “Bugger.  I don’t know if I’m more or less concerned now.”

      “I suppose I shall have to ascertain what ridiculousness has befallen them.”

      “Can I come, too?”

Lestrade’s concern had transformed into gleeful curiosity and it broke Mycroft’s heart to have to deny him the adventure.

      “I’m afraid not, Gregory.  Sherrinford’s flat is not on the ground floor and there is no lift.  I will, though, keep you informed on the status of their situation.  I do apologize for having to postpone our walk.”

Which was to have commenced as soon as Mycroft could actually make it out of their bed and see to getting them both groomed.  A true day off was a joy and starting it with a stroll had seemed the perfect thing.  In his wheelchair, his love could take in the brisk morning air and feel the weak London sunshine on his face, something he had learned was very helpful in keeping Lestrade’s mood on even keel.

      “I’m alright with it if it keeps both of your brothers alive and out of hospital.”

      “I will not promise either condition shall exist by the time I arrive, however, I should likely make haste.”

      “That’s my Mycroft, always the peacemaker.”

Lestrade grinned widely at his fiancé’s frustrated huff and gave him a light tap to set him in motion.  The sooner this was dealt with, the sooner they could continue with their day.  Mycroft had promised him a trip to a nearby café for a late breakfast and that was not something he wanted to miss.  It was a normal, couples thing to do on an off day, wheelchair notwithstanding, and that was important.  Very important, actually.  The one thing he wanted in this world, right now, was just to be a couple with his Mycroft.  He was sick of being a patient, being an invalid, being a pet or dog… not that the last were fair to his partner, but his brain still threw up images now and then that he was still struggling to erase.

He’d daydreamed, almost from the very first time he and Mycroft had tea together that they’d be doing that sort of thing as a couple on a lazy day like today.  That the man in the expensive suit would see him as someone special and different.  That there would be a smile reserved just for him and quiet nights doing nothing but enjoying each other’s company.  That’d they’d be in love and devoted and all that ridiculous, romantic drivel that men aren’t supposed to admit they want, but, deep down, hope they find.  And, now, they were starting on all of that, but it was slow going.  Mycroft was a busy man, though he made a real effort to spend as much time as he could at home and _he_ was… well, he was still scarcely able to walk about the house with any degree of success.  Just climbing the stairs at night was a challenge!  That didn’t leave a lot of opportunity for a spin in the BMW or a dash to the cinema to catch a late show.

But they were trying.  Mycroft was doing everything he could to make things as normal as possible.  Only this week, they’d started having dinner together, when possible, at the table in the kitchen, which had chairs that were manageable for him to sit through a meal and was low enough to accommodate his wheelchair when the day had been a bastard and sitting there was a better idea instead. And with the smaller motorized wheelchair he’d asked Mycroft to have delivered, he could even move around the house easily enough to do a few things like get a Sam/John-approved nibble from the refrigerator or find something new to read on the shelves Mycroft had cleared to house his small, but treasured, crap book collection.  Best of all, he could actually welcome his lover home at the end of a long day, pour him a brandy and do just a few little things to help make coming home seem like something wonderful to do.

      “I shall return as quickly as possible, my dear.  We _do_ have a date this morning and I, for one, would not like to see it set aside for whatever has befallen the two most deserving-of-disaster men in this world.”

      “Good!  Gives me time to make myself pretty for you.”

Something, in Mycroft’s opinion, was his fiancé’s natural state.  Gregory was a stunning man, even with stubble and sleep-mussed hair.  Actually… _especially_ with stubble and sleep-mussed hair…

      “Then I shall make a start.”

Something Mycroft did with his characteristic efficiency, though he may, only _may_ , have taken of late to conducting his dressing within line of sight of his lover, who very much enjoyed watching the various layers of clothing and accessories lay over his body.  And what his Gregory enjoyed, his Gregory would always be able to enjoy, so long as it was in his power to make it happen.

__________

Plastic.  Bits of black plastic on the sidewalk.  Given the height of Sherrinford’s window, acceleration due to gravity, the calculated mpact velocity and response force of the concrete… ah yes.  There was the main corpus of Sherlock’s mobile near that bicycle.  Well, the Mystery of the Aborted Phone Call was now solved.  Arthur would be very proud…

Mycroft climbed the stairs and felt a surprise level of naught that there were raised voices coming from his target location and that said raised voices didn’t hush in the slightest as he used his clandestinely-acquired key to enter the premises.  Which immediately made him wish he hadn’t.

      “Open the door, you fucking pipsqueak!”

      “No.”

One brother hiding in the bath and the other pounding on the door.  This was exactly what he’d hoped for this morning.

      “Sherrinford, kindly stop disturbing your neighbors with your ludicrous tantrum.  Sherlock, leave your mole hole and come out here to discuss the situation.”

      “No.”

      “See!  This is what I’ve had to deal with all morning!  Miserable little punk.  Yeah, I’m talking about you, you little shit!  Hear me?  Punk!”

Mycroft wondered if he left now, would his two siblings simply remain locked in war for eternity and leave the remainder of his life blessedly calm and content.

      “That is not helping, Sherrinford.”

      “Oh yeah?  Like your prissy pants lah-de-dahing did anything at all?”

      “The more one presses Sherlock, the harder becomes the cement of his current position.”

      “Cement is going to be what’s shoved up his ass AND poured around his feet so I can sink him straight to the bottom of the river!”

Sherlock’s rude noise earned him a shockingly forceful punch on the door by his older brother that made the detective squeak like a mouse.

      “I am in agony.”

      “What the fuck are you complaining about, Skinny?  You just got here?  And why _are_ you here?  Go away and find someone else to bother.”

      “I am here because of the cacophony I was forced to endure on my mobile and the abrupt destruction of Sherlock’s own device, apparently due to a hurling out of your window.”

      “Sherrinford is on the verge of eviction to live in the sewers and refuses to allow that fact to be known.  I simply sought to make the issue a family matter of discussion.”

      “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU COCKSUCKING ASSHOLE!  I’m not on the verge of anything!”

Sam kicked at the bathroom door and snarled at Sherlock’s ‘oh, did that hurt’ so ferociously, that Mycroft actually worried for his baby brother should he ever emerge from hiding.

      “That is quite enough.  Sherrinford, go to the kitchen and pour for yourself something soothing.”

      “I’m not going anywhere until Dicklock’s learned some manners.”

      “Then you shall be standing in that spot for all eternity.  Go and have a drink while I coax the child out of the bath.”

      “I am not a child!”

      “Hush, child, and let your brothers converse.  Sherrinford, please?”

The oldest Holmes scowled thunderously, but the imagined sound of fine spirits being poured over ice finally dragged him towards the kitchen.

      “Very good.  Sherlock, the big scary man has left, so you may now exit.”

The glacially-slow creaking open of the door preceded a pair of wary eyes peeking out and Mycroft used the opportunity to reach in and grab Sherlock by the arm, pulling him out of the loo.

      “Unhand me!”

      “Only when I am convinced you shall not bolt again to another hiding place like a rabbit that has been flushed from a hedge.”

      “First a child and now a rabbit.  Make up your mind.”

      “Dear heavens… if this is what Sherrinford has had to endure, I can see why he was thirsty for your blood.”

      “The only thing for which Sherrinford is thirsty is what he is currently quaffing at your suggestion.  Enabling his alcoholism is not something I would expect of you, brother dear.”

      “It seemed the most parsimonious method, in this case.  Now, we shall have a calm and productive meeting on whatever is the point of contention between you and Sherrinford and you will _not_ affect an escape if you value your continued access to New Scotland Yard.”

      “What!  You can’t do that!”

      “I believe I already did.  Come along.  I have a rendezvous with Gregory that I have no intention of missing due to flagrant fraternal foolishness.”

Mycroft turned and marched towards the kitchen, listening carefully for Sherlock’s footsteps following along after him.

      “Oh lookee.  Little Sherly Curly.  Tired of sniffing my turds?”

      “You are the most vulgar man in existence.”

      “You can put that on my tombstone.  Now, how about you and your bodyguard get the fuck out of my apartment and leave me to drink away my agita.”

      “I think not.  Though Sherlock has an unlimited capacity for both drama and agitation, he generally does not engage in the latter without some degree of either provocation or reason.”

      “That one doesn’t need a reason for _any_ of his stupidity.”

      “Why don’t you tell Mycroft about your bills, Sherrinford?”

Sherlock hopped behind Mycroft as the oldest brother lunged at him and Mycroft had to use his umbrella to poke the doctor back onto his side of the negotiation floor.

      “This is the second mention Sherlock has made concerning financial issues, so I assume this is at the root of the current situation.  Do provide the details I am missing, if you please, Sherry.”

      “No.”

      “That particular argument was infantile and unseemly for Sherlock and it is no different for you.  Try once more and remember that if this is not sorted, there is every reason to believe Sherlock will spend the rest of the day and night here simply to amuse himself.”

      “He’s going to learn the meaning of pain then.  His cell phone ain’t the only think that can learn to fly.  Or die trying.”

      “I have been threatened!  You are a witness, Mycroft.”

      “I am a witness to nothing save my growing headache.”

Sherlock dodged to one side of Mycroft and, when Sam went to grab him, darted in the other direction to snatch a handful of envelopes off of the kitchen table and shove them into Mycroft’s hands while he scurried once again behind the protection of the middle brother’s umbrella.

      “Give me that, Skinny!”

      “No, I think not.  Ah… I see.”

      “Look, I’ve been a little careless sending out checks…”

      “Lie!  He said his wallet was empty!”

      “I did not!”

      “You did!  You overextended yourself and are destitute as a result!  Rest assured, John and I will not welcome you into our home when you are dislodged from this flat, so do not even attempt to broach the conversation!”

A small circular dance commenced with Mycroft as the central maypole, which, happily, gave him the opportunity to read the contents of the remainder of the pilfered mail.

      “Would the two of you kindly cease your gyrations and foot stamping and bring your dance to a halt?  Sherrinford… I am not pleased by this disclosure.”

      “Since your pleasure isn’t mine to care about, Skinny, fuck you.”

      “And it is your fault, Mycroft, since you denied him payment for his services when you forced him to leave his wage-earning job to tend to Lestrade.”

Now, Sherlock had two sets of angered eyes turned in his direction and began to feel just the tiniest bit hot under the collar.

      “I denied Sherrinford nothing, Sherlock.  I… the matter simply slipped my mind.”

      “Was that before or after you callously threw him out of your house for incompetency?”

      “Hey!  Don’t talk to your brother like that!”

      “Have several more drinks, Sherrinford, so you might gain some measure of agreeable personality.”

Sherlock’s self-preservation run towards the bathroom was blocked by a chair that Sam kicked forward so the tall detective went head-over-heels onto the ground.  Not that it stopped Sherlock’s retreat, but scampering on all fours was not as quick a method of escape as running and Sam was able to grab a thin ankle and drag Sherlock back towards the kitchen.

      “Assault!”

      “You’re assaulting my intelligence!  And my nose.  What the fuck cologne do you wear anyway?  Eau de FancyPants?”

One brother was now three years old and the other was a curmudgeonly buffoon.  Life could not be a more glorious thing for Mycroft Holmes if a rain of toads began in the large, high-ceilinged flat.

      “John chose this cologne!”

      “John’s a no-taste bum!  Look who he married!”

      “Do not insult my husband!”

      “Don’t insult my eyes with your ugliness!”

Mycroft listened to the back and forth of ridiculous insults, watched several of Sherlock’s attempted escapes for which, he had to admit, Sherrinford demonstrated admirable agility in preventing and finally heaved a mournful huff and placed a call on his mobile.  Not that the recipient was very clear about the reason the call was being placed.

      “Are you certain, love?”

      “Most assuredly.  And, I shall be timing the response.  This shall factor into the next round of budget discussions, my dear, so do take the matter seriously.”

Lestrade stared at his phone and wished beyond wishing that he could have gone with his fiancé because this sounded like a tremendous amount of fun and he was missing all of it!  For his part, Mycroft consulted his pocket watch to note the time he ended the call and the time the police arrived on scene to take his idiotic brothers into custody.  Very speedy, even by his own exacting standards.  His dearest Gregory must have used his most commanding voice to issue the call for personnel.

      “What!  Hey, get your hands off me, fuzz!”

      “I am not a criminal!  You have no right to insult me in this manner!”

      “Actually, Sherlock, you are quite guilty of… opening another person’s mail without permission.  As well as creating a public disturbance.”

      “This is Sherrinford’s _private_ residence, Mycroft!”

      “I consider myself, for the purposes of this discussion, a member of the public, and I am _profoundly_ disturbed by this nonsense.”

      “Dammit, Skinny, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

      “Nothing, now that I do not have the responsibility of keeping the two of you from razing this lovely building and leaving behind nothing but ash.  Sherlock, do assist Sherrinford through the arrest process.  I’m certain he has had countless encounters with the law in America, however, our ins and outs might confuse him a tad.  Gentlemen, if you would?’

The sergeant in charge had been given very explicit direction on who was _actually_ in charge at the scene and obeyed without hesitation, having his PC’s march Sherlock and Sam off to the waiting cars, while Mycroft nicely extinguished the lights and saw the door was properly locked behind them.  Now, a breakfast awaited and he had already made his Gregory wait an unconscionable amount of time to see their day started.  And wouldn’t his love enjoy a bit of storytelling with his morning coffee…

__________

      “Well, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Sherlock.”

      “If you are trying to intimate that this is my fault, Sherrinford, you are even more idiotic than I suspected.”

      “You were the one who had to snoop into my business, weren’t you?  Here I was, nicely offering you a little grub and the next thing I know, you’re eyes are groping my private mail.”

      “If you weren’t so ridiculously prideful, you would not be in this predicament.”

      “Me!  That’s the pot calling the kettle black.  You don’t knock on Mycie’s door for help with _anything_ , so why do you think I should?”

      “Because…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I need time to think.”

      “Meaning you’re choking on your hypocrisy, you loserific baby.”

      “It is not my fault Mycroft is insufferable!”

      “Skinny ain’t so bad.”

      “He had us arrested!  On fabricated charges, at that.”

      “Yeah, you’re right.  He’s a dick.  What are we going to do about it?”

      “Sit here and avoid molestation, I suppose.  John laughed, and loudly at that, when I phoned him, so I suspect help is not coming from that front.”

      “I’ll help you get revenge on him later.  Right now, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

Sherlock squawked loudly seeing Sam take his mobile out of his pocket and shoved his brother’s hand off of his knee after Sam patted it sympathetically.

      “You’re not allowed to have that.” 

      “Blow me.”

Refusing to contemplate how his brother had a phone while he, who was far more deserving, had his confiscated, Sherlock settled for pouting with the full force of his indignation.

      “Shit.”

      “There is a receptacle in the corner.”

      “Shut up.  Arthur’s not answering his phone.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and began to smile brightly as the plan to overthrow the British Government started to become clear.

      “Phone Martin.”

      “That could work.  Hold on… ringing… Marty!  Marty, Marty, Marty, my old friend.”

      “What do you want Sherrinford?”

Martin’s irritation was nearly a living thing and Sam’s mental picture of a petulant, ginger toddler glaring at a phone was really the high point of the day so far.

      “Just to shoot the breeze.  I was looking for Arthur to breeze at, actually, but he’s not answering his phone.  Tuckered him out with all your animal magnetism?”

      “You are a person I truly, truly hate.  But… thank you?”

      “You’re welcome!  Now, where’s that wonderful husband of yours?”

      “What’s wrong with you?”

      “You really don’t want the details of that list, do you?”

      “No, but something’s going on and I want to know what it is.”

      “Now, Martin… there’s no reason to be suspicious…”

      “There’s _every_ reason to be suspicious and, unless you want me to hang up now…”

      “Fine!  I… I just needed a little info from Arthur Schmarthur.  You know… birth dates and stuff.”

      “You already have mine and I know Arthur programmed all of his information into your phone already, so unless you’re hoping to surprise Douglas with a romantic birthday getaway, which I easily concede could be the case, I still say you’re hiding something.”

      “Am not.”

      “Is there anyone else there I can talk to?  Your nurse or an orderly or something?”

      “Funny.  And the only other person here is Sherly, so think twice before you ask that again.”

That was actually a serious consideration.  Martin honestly didn’t know who was the more infuriating to talk to and really had no desire to completely send his day into chaos.

      “So, it’s you and Sherlock and something’s going on that you need to talk to Arthur about.”

      “You’re not the detective in the family, Marty, that’s your husband, so put him on the line and don’t embarrass yourself.”

      “And what you need to talk to Arthur about is very important.”

      “Just hand the phone over to your sweetie-pie and…”

      “ _Very_ important.”

      “Martin…”

      “Was that a touch of a growl in your voice or just some phlegm?”

      “That’s it!  You’ve got until the count of five to hand the phone to Arthur or else…”

      “Or else what?”

      “I hang up, call Douglas, ask him to find Arthur to take the phone and, when he says no, offer to trade knowledge about… the thing… so he can torment you for all of eternity.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Come on, Martin… you know.  The _thing_.”

      “I have no idea… what thing?”

      “ _The_ thing.  The thingiest thing that Douglas would love to have in his arsenal of information about poor little you.”

      “I… look, there’s no call for… I’m sure you’re…”

      “Sherlock’s even a little squirmy… remembering the thing now?”

      “What?  Wait… No!  No… Sherrinford… Sam… you can’t!  Douglas would…”

      “Make your life hell on Earth.”

      “You can’t!  That’s horribly unfair!”

      “Then get Arthur on the horn now!”

Sam grinned as Martin’s phone was dropped and the sound of running feet greeted his ear.

      “Whatever are you talking about, Sherrinford?”

      “No idea, Sherly Baby, but everybody’s got a thing they don’t want their nemesis knowing about, so it was an easy play.”

      “You are despicable.”

      “Does that mean sexy?”

Sherlock snorted, but filed away the strategy for future use.

      “Hi, Doctor Sam!  Skip said you tried to phone me, but since my phone does so many magical things I sometimes forget that it needs power, so it’s charging while I tidy GERTI.  We’re on standby, which Skip hates, but I think is brilliant, really, because we get to sit and play games and listen to music and have snacks and nobody can say we’re wasting time because we’re not.  We’re working!”

      “That sounds real nice.  So nice, actually, that I’m thinking I shouldn’t have called you because… yeah, I should probably just say so long and…”

      “Wait!  Doctor Sam, Skip looked a little flustered when he came to get me, so I have to suspect that there is something rather wrong going on and if there’s something wrong going on, then I’d like to know what it is so I can help it from getting any wronger, if possible.  Or at least sing a song or something to make you feel better about the wrongness.”

      “You’re a kind soul, Arthur, unlike dear brother Mycroft.  So cold… such a cold, cold man…”

      “What!  Oh no… what did Mycroft do?  He has a small habit, I must admit, of doing some things that aren’t exactly the nicest, but I know all about that, so it’s alright to talk to me about it.”

Sherlock grinned evilly as his ear was pressed against Sam’s mobile and was actually able to ignore the unpleasantly-close proximity to his enemy-of-the-day.

      “I… well… maybe I shouldn’t.  I know how much you love Mycroft and I’d hate for you to think poorly of him just because he had Sherlock and me thrown in jail.  Oops.”

      “WHAT!  He… Skip!  Get me a chair!  Because I need to sit down, that’s why.  Oh, yes, there _is_ one right next to my bum.  Thanks!  I was so upset that I didn’t notice it.  Hmmm… oh, because Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam are in jail and… Skip, it’s not polite to laugh at people who are in jail.  No, I… actually, yes! that’s a great idea!  Doctor Sam, you have to take a picture of you and Mr. Sherlock in jail.  Take lots actually and see if you can get the policemen to pose with you, too.  They like doing that, I’ve discovered.  When Skip and I were kidnapped for our party, the policemen in the van were happy to take photos with me and…”

      “Yeah, well, we’ll see, Party Artie.  It might be something to do, though, to pass the LONG amount of time Sherlock and I will be sitting here, cold and lonely.  Because of Mycroft.”

      “Yes!  Right!  What happened?  Tell me everything and don’t hold anything back.”

      “Oh… if you _really_ want to know…”

      “I do!  I mean, I don’t because I don’t like hearing sad or bad things, but I think this is something I need to know about in case…”

      “Yes?”

      “Well, in case I need to have a little chat with Mycroft.”

Arthur couldn’t see the spirited antics on the other end of the phone line, but Sherlock’s contribution would surely have given him an unexpected thrill.

      “That’s kind of you, son, but I’d hate to put you out when you’ve got tidying to do.”

      “I do admit that I have quite a bit of cleaning since our last flight got a bit messy.  It was a group of ladies and they’d had rather a lot to drink.  And… they may have found my emergency glitter supply that I keep aboard and all the nuts and more to drink and perhaps some of my balloons and that brilliant stringy stuff that you spray out of a can.  I think I need to have a trip to the shops now, actually, after I finish my cleaning.  Oh!  And have a chat with Mycroft.  I nearly forgot that, which would have been a shame because you shouldn’t have to sit in jail because I got distracted by stands of glittery spray string.”

      “That would be a shame.  Especially since Sherlock had some of my coffee this morning, which isn’t as good as yours, of course, but I think it’s got his plumbing working and… well, I hate to say this, but the bathroom in here isn’t a bath _room_.  It’s a toilet.  Where other people can watch.  I don’t think either of us is going to handle that well.”

      “What!  Oh… oh, that’s terrible.  That’s _very_ terrible, especially if… well, I know what my coffee does to Skip and he needs a little… personal time… after he’s had a cup in the morning.  I’m going to call Mycroft right now and get this sorted out.  I’m sure he thinks he had a good reason to put you in jail, but… no, I can’t really think about that right now.  Tell Mr. Sherlock to be very still and think quiet thoughts and maybe his insides will be quiet for awhile, too.”

      “I’ll pass that along.  Thanks, Arthur.  You’re a pal.”

      “You’re welcome!  Bye!”

Sam did a little dance on the small cot and sniggered with demonic glee at his middle brother’s unhappy fate.  Poor tyrannical Mycie, gonna find out fast what it means to be out tyrranied in the nicest, jolliest manner possible.  Too bad _he_ was going to have to miss all the fun…

__________

      “I tell you, love, I really can’t believe you had me do that.”

      “Would you have preferred to miss our stroll and breakfast?”

      “Not at all!  I’m just surprised you didn’t issue order yourself.”

      “Chain of command, my dear.  I do hate to step on toes when a more collegial approach will accomplish the same goal.  And here we are…”

Lestrade grinned at sight of the café they were approaching and wanted to bounce up and down in his chair.  It was a fairly long walk for Mycroft to have to push him, but his partner was as thrilled as he was about the outing.  And there was a table open next to the window, too…

      “Oh look.  Our table is ready.”

      “Hmmm…”

      “That’s your doing, isn’t it?  Be honest, Mycroft.”

      “Perhaps, though it is only to facilitate entry and egress with your chair.  I would hate to ask other patrons to interrupt their meal to accommodate our movement through the premises.”

      “I thought there were regulations about wheelchair access in public places.”

      “Regulations are one thing, adherence to them is another.”

      “You just wanted the romantic window table.”

      “That may have factored to the most minor degree in my actions.”

Mycroft leaned down and kissed the top of Lestrade’s head, while the café owner bolted from behind the counter to hold the door open for them.

      “Is this acceptable, Gregory?”

      “Oh, this is great.  Really, amazingly great.  I’ve… I’ve missed this sort of thing.  Morning out for a bite to eat and a few breaths of fresh air.  And I can take some pretty deep breaths now, too.  See?  Watch…”

Lestrade took in as deep a breath as he could and Mycroft politely applauded his effort.

      “Exceptional, my dear.  No one breathes as heroically as you.”

      “Thanks!  I try my best.  And we can have a really decadent breakfast, right?”

      “The most hedonistic menu item they create.  I promise not to tattle to John about the unhealthiness of our repast.”

      “Yes!  This is going to be fantastic.  Let’s see what’s the worst they’ve got…”

Lestrade very dramatically buried his nose in the menu and Mycroft smiled fondly at his partner.  The simplest, smallest thing and his Gregory was positively glowing.  Fortunately, he was finding that his own pleasure with simple, small things was far larger than he had predicted.  And the ringing of his mobile signaled that a _very_ pleasurable phone call was on hand…

      “Ah, Arthur.  How delightful it is to hear your voice.”

      “Hi, Mycroft!  Oh, I may have said that wrong.”

      “I would say your greeting was a very agreeable one.”

      “True, but I might have needed to be a bit stern and that certainly wasn’t a stern Hi, Mycroft!, now was it?”

      “Stern?  My dear boy, what has distressed you?”

      “Well, it’s not me, actually, though I have to say I was a bit upset to find out that Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam were in jail, but I’m sure you have a good explanation for it, so I suppose I can not be stern for the moment until I find out what that reason was and make the decision later.”

How... this was disastrous! And fantastically unsporting.  Definitely Sherrinford’s handiwork…

      “I see.  I take it you found out about my little jest.”

Lestrade’s eyes peered over the menu and gave Mycroft a very quizzical stare, which Mycroft tried to pacify with an ‘it is nothing, my dear’ wave of his fingers.

      “Mycroft, Mr. Sherlock might have to… go… where everybody can see him and, well, that’s not really a pleasant outcome of a little joke.  Now, I suspect you know that, so I have to ask why you had Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam arrested.”

      “I… it seemed the correct decision at the time based on the very troubling events to which I was witness.”

      “Oh.  They… they didn’t do anything silly, did they?”

      “That is their normal condition, so you may rest assured silliness has played a large part in their predicament.  And… fisticuffs.”

Two can play at this game, Sherrinford, and you are going against a master.

      “What!”

      “Tempers and silliness was running at an atrociously-high level and there was a definable threat of regrettable behavior on both Sherlock and Sherrinford’s parts.  I… I was most fearful for, shall we say, rash action.”

      “Oh dear… that’s bad.”

      “I agree.  And Gregory fully supported me in my decision.  A small measure of time to reflect on their behavior was certainly not amiss and there is little quieter and more conducive to personal reflection than a holding cell.”

Lestrade’s curiosity was slowly being satisfied and he rubbed his hands in anticipation of getting the other side of the conversation relayed to him as soon as Mycroft got off the phone.

      “Well, I’ll have to remember that when Skip goes a bit off his head!  But, Mycroft… Doctor Sam sounded very raincloudy and Mr. Sherlock was beginning to have a bit of a problem, so maybe you should get them out soon.  Doctor Watson is probably missing Mr. Sherlock anyway and you didn’t say he was involved in the silliness, so there’s no reason for him to be alone and not have anyone to talk to.  Maybe I should phone him and try to cheer him up…”

      “What a splendid idea.  I am certain John would appreciate the buoying effects of your supportive conversation.”

      “Then that’s what I’ll do.  I’ll call later and see if you’ve remembered to get Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam out of jail, though.  I’d hate for you to get distracted, like I sometimes do, and they’ve been left to sit there after all their reflection is done.”

Drat.

      “I will endeavor to remember without your timely reminder, but I will ever appreciate hearing your voice on the phone.  May I… is it permissible to, first, finish my breakfast with Gregory?  We have taken a lovely stroll this morning and are about to enjoy a meal at the coziest of cafes.”

      “Brilliant!  Greg is actually at a café?”

      “He most certainly is.  It is our first, one might say, official outing as a couple since his accident.”

      “That is… that is most Skip Brilliant! thing I’ve heard all day!  Admittedly, the only other thing I’ve heard is Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam being in jail, but I think this would be Skip Brilliant! any day, actually.  He’s… he’s ok, isn’t he?  Nothing hurts, right?”

      “Gregory is both in fine health and fine spirits, though he is under strict orders to notify me immediately if either of those situations changes.  And, I do believe he is eyeing some rather indulgent choices for his breakfast, so that, in itself, is a telling thing.”

      “That sounds especially yummy.  Now, though, I’m even more worried about Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam because I’ve seen a LOT of police shows on the telly and I don’t believe you get a lot of yummy food in jail.”

      “Likely not, but, then, Sherlock does say that digestion impairs his mental workings, so a small fast would be a benefit to his ruminations on his morning’s shenanigans.”

      “There is that, I suppose, but I do think anyone’s day is a little brighter when they have a nice breakfast to get it started.  I’ll still call Doctor Watson for a small cheer up, but I’ll call you again sooner than I had planned to make doubly sure you don’t have them sit in jail for too long and miss lunch or have one that’s rather urgh.  Tell Greg hello for me?”

      “I shall do it post haste.”

      “Brilliant!  Bye, Mycroft.”

      “Goodbye, Arthur.”

Lestrade made sure the phone call was terminated before starting to giggle like a schoolboy.

      “They set Arthur on you!  Oh, that’s fantastic.”

      “Sherrinford is a villainous troll and I am considering seeing his charge sheet elongated to the point where his graying head shall not emerge from custody until next century.”

      “Now, now… you know that the next time Arthur phones, he’ll expect cheery news and if you don’t have that to give him…”

      “He might speak sternly.”

      “And you know you don’t want that.”

      “No, that would certainly be the vinegar in the sweetness of my day.”

Lestrade motioned the server over to take their order and finally broached the reason for the morning’s chaos.

      “So… you never told me _why_ Sherlock and Sam were going at it.  It wasn’t… it wasn’t anything harsh, was it?”

Mycroft had hoped that by ignoring the situation, his partner’s excitement for their excursion would keep the conversation away from the root of the turbulence.  However, his fiancé’s detective’s mind would have its way despite his best intentions.

      “It was the sort of nonsense one would expect from the meeting of such juvenile and drama-loving minds.  Sherlock perpetrated a childish affront and Sherrinford reacted with his typical exaggerated bluster.”

      “Ok, now how about telling me what happened without trying _not_ to tell me what happened.”

Gregory’s mind was tremendously arousing, except when it drew attention to things best left unnoticed.  Well, there was nothing for it…

      “Yes… I simply wanted to spare you any worry during our pleasant day.”

      “That bad?”

      “No, not really.  Now that I am aware of the situation it shall be set aright, however, it was sufficient to ignite an altercation.”

      “Still not telling me the tale, love.”

      “True.  Apparently, Sherlock took to reading Sherrinford’s mail and learned that our brother is delinquent in his financial obligations.”

      “What?  Sam’s not been paying his bills?”

      “His pathetic lie is that he has simply forgotten to mail his cheques, however, Sherlock claims to be witness to a previous disclosure that it was, instead, due to lack of funds.”

      “Shite.  I bet that’s the truth, too.  He… he hasn’t seen a penny for my care, has he?”

      “Not by intent, Gregory, you must believe that.  Perhaps, early on, I was reluctant to reward his baboon-like behavior with payment, but I fully intended to recompense him properly for his efforts at some point.  Then, given our personal troubles, the situation was somewhat pushed to the corners of my mind.  When it has made its presence known, it has felt… the idea of scripting a cheque has seemed very strange.”

      “Paying a brother to do a job for you, you mean.”

      “I suppose. I have not really considered the impact of my lack of action, however, Sherrinford should not have allowed the situation to come to this.  His pride has been his downfall, as is typical for him, but I will not deny my share of the culpability.”

Pride and downfalls seemed to be a Holmes family trait, but Lestrade decided his lover didn’t need a case of dyspepsia from his mentioning that fact at the breakfast table.

      “And you _are_ going to write that cheque, right?  I’ll pay what I can, but…”

      “ _I_ contracted Sherrinford and I will see to his remuneration, my dear, so do not fret about that.  I will see his accounts settled today and add to his bank balance the remainder of his wages.”

      “Which are?”

      “To be decided.”

      “Well, at least that’s sibling-like.  Pay him what you pay John, and he’ll be happy, but remember… he’s done a lot of extra duty when John couldn’t be here and when you’ve had a fright and needed someone to tell you I’m not dying.”

A fright?  Why, that was simply ludicrous.  Marginally ludicrous, at least…

      “Though I am somewhat of the opinion that he enjoys being called in for a check of your health as it affords him ample opportunity to pilfer my larders, closets and spirits selection.”

      “Yeah, there’s that, but it doesn’t pay the rent, so get things sorted.  You… you don’t think Sam told Arthur that bit, do you?”

      “Heaven’s no!  If that were the case, I have no doubt I would still have my ear to my mobile, receiving the affable wrath of our dear steward.  But, I would not discount the possibility that such would be Sherrinford’s next move in our little war, so freedom from incarceration _should_ occur at some point today.”

      “After breakfast though, right?”

      “Absolutely!  Arthur is currently phoning John and that could take quite awhile depending the degree of spirits-raising he feels John requires.  We shall enjoy a leisurely meal and then I shall see our miscreants released.”

      “Wrong.”

      “Pardon?”

      “ _We’ll_ see the miscreants released.”

      “Oh… no, I do not believe that is a good idea.”

      “Come on, love!  You can’t have all the fun, now can you?  I handled a ride in car fairly well and that was awhile ago, so I bet I can do even better this time!”

Did Gregory have to smile his most luminous smile?  Of course he did… his future husband was nothing if not a masterful negotiator.

      “We shall see how you fare after our breakfast.”

      “I’m not going to exhaust myself lifting my fork to my face.”

From the large plate of victuals set in front of his lover, Mycroft had some doubt about that assertion.

      “Put not the cart before horse, my dear.”

      “You’re sexy when you use polished-silver language.”

      “Then, I shall endeavor to be as silvery as possible for you.”

Something that put another smile on Lestrade’s face.  His Mycroft was a spectacular man.  A little mental when it came to his older brother and there were a host of valid reasons why, but a spectacular man nonetheless.  And wasn’t this breakfast waiting happily for his attention also spectacular?  Yes, it was.  One calorie-filled breakfast and then a trip to get the hooligans out of jail.  Really, could a day be better than this?

__________

      “No.”

      “Come on.”

      “No.”

      “Look, you’re supposed to be musical, so give it a whirl.”

      “I am not going to act as your backup singer!”

      “Why not?  We’ve got to cool our heels until Skinny gets his head out of his ass, so we might as well enjoy ourselves.”

      “Listening to you croak and warble is not my idea of enjoying myself.”

      “That’s because you’re uncultured, but we’re going to work on that.  I’m thinking _Proud Mary_ would be a good place to start.”

Sherlock wondered how easy it was to strangle one’s self with shoelaces and was on the verge of conducting that very experiment when the sound of keys in the cell door bought him another chance at life.

      “Aren’t you two the pretty prisoners?”

      “Invalid!  You old cocksucker, how are you?”

Mycroft shared a commiserative look with Sherlock, then remembered his younger brother was heavily to blame for this situation and rescinded his commiseration.

      “Better than you!  Had a heart-killing breakfast, long wheel around the city, got to have you arrested and now I get to bail you out.  This is the best day I could have imagined when I woke up this morning.”

      “I thought I smelled your cheesy feet in getting us nailed.  I hope you’re making Skinny pay for using you as his tool for abuse.  Hands tied behind his back and on his knees sort of payment, too.  Maybe wearing a cute little leather get-up.  Yeah, that might make me feel 1% better about his shittiness.”

      “That’s not a bad id… ow!”

Mycroft rubbed the spot he’d swatted on Lestrade’s head and glared at his older brother who, in the short period of his incarceration, had accumulated a shocking selection of handmade stabbing devices beside him on the cot.

      “Your legal matters have been settled, brothers mine, and, provided you pose no further threat to the laws of our great nation, you are free to leave.”

      “What do you say, Baby?  Feel like a few more hours, or days, of quality time with your big bro?”

Sherlock broke the speed barrier racing out of the cell and Lestrade mourned the detective’s lack of interest in anything of a sporting nature.

      “Well, that was pretty definitive.  Guess it’s just me and you two, then.  What’s up next?  A flogging?  No, wait… that’s what’s waiting for Mycie later.”

      “You are going to wherever your species goes to spend its day, while Gregory and I return home.  He is certainly fatigued from our excessive activity and…”

The loud, in-stereo protestations and refutations made Mycroft’s ears ring and it was some moments before the eruption of noise settled into discernable vocal patterns.

      “I’m fine!  Little bit of ache and tiredness, but I’m nowhere near falling apart!”

      “If Sicky is having a good day then you’re a fuck raisin if you want to make him cut it short.”

Suddenly, the ramifications of being the middle brother became clear to Mycroft and he groaned inwardly at the long eternity of suffering that awaited him.

      “Very well.  Gregory and I shall enjoy a continued day out of the house and you shall… disappear.”

      “I knew you saw me as magical, Skinny.  Don’t worry, though, Greg.  Holmescest isn’t on my approved list of recreational activities.  Usually.  So, I think I’ll stick with you guys, instead.  What do you think… strip club, soccer game, demolition derby, shoplifting…”

      “I will see you chained in this cell, Sherrinford…”

      “Hey!  That’s a great idea!  Not the chain part because, as previous stated but fun to say again, that’s what’s waiting for _you_ later.  How about Gregster gives me a tour of his office?  I bet he’d love to show off his pencils and stapler, as well as the whisky he’s got hidden in his bottom drawer.  That’s the part I’m most anxious to see, actually.”

Mycroft’s ‘Good heavens, no’ and Lestrade’s ‘That’s a brilliant idea’ emerged in perfect harmony and it was Sam’s turn to mourn, this time because there was no way Mycroft would agree to them being his backup group any more than the no-fun baby brother who had beat feet faster than a miser after a dollar bill.

      “Greggy’s vote counts double, so he wins!”

      “What!  That is… well, that is certainly undemocratic.”

      “Says the man so royalist each of his blood cells is embossed with a tiny crown.  Sorry, Mycie, we’re going on a field trip.”

The middle Holmes squared his shoulders in preparation for the oncoming battle, but deflated like a pierced balloon when he saw the honest excitement and anticipation in his fiancé’s eyes.  A small tour might not too terribly stress his Gregory and it _would_ further help to reconnect him with his colleagues.  Hell and damnation…

      “If I have both of your words that this shall remain short and sedate in pace, then I shall grant approval.”

Sam cut eyes to Lestrade who grinned a ‘oh, let him have his moment’ grin that Sam agreed was the quickest way to get what they wanted.

      “Fine, I’ll even put in my doctor’s eyes for the occasion.  Let’s see where they use the rubber hoses on suspects, first.  That should be fun.”

Greg laughed and smiled up at Mycroft, how sighed loudly and moved the wheelchair backwards out of the cell to get their activity started.  This was going to be painful… fortunately, when his love needed a nap upon returning home, he would be perfectly positioned to join him…

__________

Mycroft breathed in a happy volume of air and plucked the ringing mobile out of his pocket to begin a much-welcome break from his frantic keeping of their ship on even keel.

      “Arthur, my boy, how good it is to hear from you.”

      “Hi, Mycroft!  I am officially checking that Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam have been… Skip, what’s this say?  Are you sure?  Ok… I am officially checking that Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam have been sprung from the hoosegow.”

      “Good heavens!  Whatever is that about?”

      “Well, I’m not entirely certain, but Douglas and Skip thought it was funny and, since it wasn’t mean, I didn’t mind asking.”

Mycroft took note of the chorus of giggles in the background and hoped beyond hope that this would translate into phone calls that further plagued his tiresome brother.  _Either_ of them.  It really didn’t matter which contracted said plague so long at boils and sores were heavily involved.

      “Ah, the other two of your airborne trio have decided to take interest in today’s bit of drama?”

      “If laughing counts as interest, then yes.  They took a LOT of interest.  But, _are_ Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Sam still in jail?  It’s been quite a long time and I may have gotten a bit distracted after talking to Doctor Watson about the Army, which he knows everything about, and forgot to call you back until Skip reminded me.  I would have remembered eventually because I left myself eight or nine notes not to forget and I’d have run across one at some point.”

      “Well, you may pack away your reminders as my brothers have been freed from their cell and are… in truth, I have no idea where is Sherlock at the moment, but Sherrinford is merrily escorting Gregory around New Scotland Yard.”

      “Brilliant!  He’s getting to meet all of Greg’s friends and… this is the first time _Greg’s_ been out to meet his friends, isn’t it?  That’s brilliant on its own because I know how much Greg has missed his police friends and wants to be back at work so he can see them all the time and solve crimes.  Everyone is happy to see Greg, too, I wager.”

Oh, and Arthur would be extremely correct.  Gregory’s arrival was heralded by an audible gasp that shook the building’s foundations and it was doubtful any useful work had been done since, seeing as every person seemed most intent on greeting his fiancé, bestowing sincere good wishes, asking a hundred questions about his situation and, hearteningly, his return.  Now and then he had been required to excuse them to a quiet corner so his love could compose himself when the emotion rose to a visible level.

      “Gregory’s welcome has been an ebullient one and we are completely unable to return home as there is a line of individuals waiting to speak with him and wish him good fortune for his recovery.”

      Hurray!  I’m not surprised, though, because they’ve all been very nice when I visited.  Not as much to Mr. Sherlock, but everyone was very nice to me. And I’m sure they think Doctor Sam is a lot of fun, since Greg’s friends like to laugh and tell jokes and Doctor Sam very much approves of all of that.”

Oh, Sherrinford was quite in his element, though Gregory was doing an admirable job of steering the women away from the locust.  The one he remembered from the visit at home, Sally, he was somewhat worried about, however, for she seemed to see his brother as a challenge and that could lead nowhere good.

      “Despite his particularly odious nature, Sherrinford is on good behavior for this visit, perhaps due to his previous hours spent in our valiant police service’s tender care.”

      “That’s good!  And I’m happy to hear they were good to him and Mr. Sherlock because you said it was only to give them a little time to have a sit and get over being silly, so it wasn’t as if they’d committed a crime or done anything bad.”

Begin born was sufficiently bad in his brothers’ cases, but that was best left unsaid given the identity of his conversation partner.

      “Nothing of the sort and I am most certain both Sherlock and Sherrinford benefitted from the bit of quiet.  I shall pass along to them, however, your concern for their welfare and glad heart that they are again free men.”

      “Thanks!  I admit I was a touch worried when Doctor Sam phoned, because… well, I can think of more than a few reasons that Doctor Sam might find himself in jail.  Mr. Sherlock, too, now that I think about it, so it’s a big relief none of that was true and it’s over and done with anyway.”

At least Arthur properly recognized both of his brothers criminal and anarchic potential.  Perceptive individuals were so rare in today’s society.

      “Yes, I shall have to keep a weather eye on them to ensure their next bout of incarceration is not for something that a magistrate might find worthy of his attention.”

      “Absolutely!  Though, if they do have to go to court, I’ll be there to cheer for them and bring snacks, because it seems like a day in court can be… well, it can be a _day_ in court and I know I don’t do very well if all I have is a lunch break all day long and don’t have any snacks to keep up my strength.”

      “Something for which I am certain both will be exceptionally thankful.  Now, I do believe I need to temporarily separate Gregory from his admirers and verify that he is still in good health.”

      “That’s probably a good idea, because Greg isn’t very good about saying when he’s not feeling well or is a bit tired.”

      “He does prize his stoic façade.  Relay my regards to your spouse, if you would, and tell Mr. Richardson that your next visit to Lisbon might find him needing a conversation with his colleague in the Customs office.  I shall pass along the relevant details, and his fee, next week.”

      “Sure!  And I’ll give Skip a big hug and kiss and say they’re from you.”

      “Simply joyful.  Until later, dear boy.”

      “Bye!”

Mycroft smiled warmly as he pocketed his phone and simply stood awhile gazing at the man he loved, surrounded by well-wishers and within the shadow of the family monkey, who was, he was annoyed to admit, closely observing the man in the wheelchair, undoubtedly for any sign of medical trouble.  On the rare occasion, Sherrinford was not completely useless and irritating and perhaps, just perhaps, he could use the moment to do some observing of his own.  A number of observations of his Detective Inspector’s colleagues would need to be had before his fiancé returned to work.  Those who were not fully supportive of Gregory’s return and possessed of the confident camaraderie required to make his lover feel, again, a valuable member of their team… well, there were many locations to station police personnel where they could make contributions to the public good.  So many little hamlets required a frequent policing of wayward sheep and drunkards urinating against lampposts…

__________

      “Do I have to?”

      “Go the fuck to sleep, invalid.  If your eyes drooped any further, every time you blinked you’d give yourself a happy rub and I am not staying here to see that.”

Lestrade made a highly rude noise, which earned him Mycroft’s proud smile as the middle brother escorted Sam out of makeshift sitting room where they’d put Greg in his reclining armchair to take a small nap to restore his energies.

      “Is…”

      “Greg’s fine, Mycroft.  He’s tired and is going to be a little or a lot sore later on, but I’ll tell you how much of his pain meds you can give him if he needs it.  Today was good for him, surely you could see that.”

      “Certainly I could.  Gregory’s interactions with his associates were most positive and his spirits were obviously bolstered by the familiar surroundings and encouraging voices.”

      “And that’s the most important thing, so don’t worry about a little exertion.  I wouldn’t let him do it again tomorrow, but something to reinforce that he’s both expected and _wanted_ back at work is massively helpful.  I’m going to want to step up his physical therapy soon, and this is going to be some solid motivation to do his best with that.”

      “Nothing… nothing too strenuous, I hope.”

      “Just strenuous enough.  A little more motion, give his legs some work for strength.  If possible, I’d like to see him do a little cardio…”

      “What!  You intend to put Gregory on some infernal… treadmill.”

      “Actually, I was thinking about finding a pool for some leg-based water aerobics, but you’re thinking about the expensive fucking treadmill you’ve got behind that unobtrusive door off the kitchen that people probably think is a storage closet for mops and brooms, aren’t you?  You’ve got a whole third of a house out of sight of most people, don’t you, sneaky bastard?”

      “You discovered my… fitness room.”

      “Oh yeah and I’m going to see some use out of that fucker as soon as Greg is able since you’ve got good, sturdy equipment that’s good for some of the work he’ll need to do.  And, since the room’s as big as Alaska, I’ll give you some ideas for a weight system that he’s going to need later on for his arms and chest.  Besides, big manly man like him would want to pump iron even after he’s back in fighting shape.  Anyway, someone has to use the stuff because I saw a lot of dust, Skinny.  A _lot_ of dust…”

      “I think you will agree that I have had little opportunity to utilize my equipment in recent times.”

      “A LOT of dust.”

      “My fitness regimen is none of your business.”

      “There’s dandruff samples in there that have Neanderthal DNA.”

      “I have had quite enough of this conversation.”

      “Me, too, so lets move on to other things.”

Sam slugged Mycroft hard in the arm and grinned as his brother shrieked in pain and surprise.

      “What are you…”

      “Don’t ever have me arrested again you miserable fuck!  You may think you’re king of the universe, but that universe does _not_ include me and if you try anything highhanded like that again I am going to give you a pounding that will have your ass wedged into your sinuses!”

      “I will desist with such overt measures if you can control yourself and not behave like a toddler.”

      “So, you’re saying you support putting kids in jail.  That’s going to go down well with your universal subjects.”

      “Your inanity is not appreciated.”

      “I appreciate it, so you’re wrong.”

      “And this inanity, combined with your juvenile volatility, makes for a potent combination when stirred together with Sherlock’s… everything.”

      “What did it hurt?  A little yelling, a little thumping…”

      “If I did not see you taken in by the police, your landlady certainly would have at some point.”

      “Doubtful.  She’s a little deaf and thinks I’m aces.”

      “So the poor dear has a touch of dementia, as well.”

      “Funny.”

      “I thought so.  Now, if you are going to inhabit the city and, I suspect, interact with Sherlock on a regular basis, you must learn to… endure and manage his special nature.”

      “Fucker steals my mail and gets into my business, he’s going to get another race to the bathroom and this one he won’t win.”

That, at least, was a bit of ridiculousness for which Mycroft had use.

      “I agree that Sherlock’s intrusion into your personal business was inappropriate, however, your response was _as_ inappropriate.  At worst, he would have spread your news to our family, some of whom would have considered it well-deserved and some who would have hoped to assist.  Neither condition would be lethal.”

      “You wouldn’t tell anyone if you were hard up for cash.”

      “I am not the subject of discussion.”

      “Doesn’t matter.  You can’t say I should be alright with something that wouldn’t be alright with you.  Want some business cards?  Hyp. O Crite – Professional Talker Out of Both Sides of His Mouth.”

Mycroft glared, but his brother did have a miniscule point.  If, though it was as impossible as the opening of a wormhole to Middle Earth, he found himself financially embarrassed, he would never want a soul to know except himself.  Certainly not the man taking a much-needed rest after a long and tiring day.

      “Very well, I shall concede that I would not be eager to reveal my condition, however, and this is the salient point, if my sad state was the result of another’s actions, or lack thereof, I would bring the matter to that individual’s attention to see the situation rectified.”

Sam pursed his lips and stared at his brother who was trying his hardest to stare back with nothing but cool superiority.

      “Yeah, you say that, but that’s still not true.  You’d hit up a stranger or business associate who owed you money, but you wouldn’t rattle the cage of a friend or family.  I know you, Skinny… your ego wouldn’t let you.”

Well, if Sherrinford was going to bring reality into the situation in a typically unfair use of strategy…

      “Completely untrue.”

Behold my well-crafted and logical retort.  Yes, I do deserve the smirk you are giving me, Sherry and I am well aware of that fact so do not mention said fact if you value your surprisingly healthy teeth.

      “Yeah, ok.  You stick with that.  Now, I’m headed home for a shower and a drink.  Or a shower and several drinks.  Or maybe just the drinks.”

Mycroft caught the tiniest of flashes in his brother’s eyes that he hoped he was interpreting correctly because his own teeth were at risk if he wasn’t.

      “I have settled your overdue accounts.”

Sam stopped the turn-to-leave he was performing and looked back at Mycroft who was holding fast to cool superiority as the day’s look of choice.

      “What?”

      “I have settled your overdue accounts.  I calculated the wages you were due, based on the rate at which I recompense John and used a portion to bring your accounts up to date and saw the rest deposited into your bank account.”

      “I see...”

Should he simply let his teeth take the force of the coming punch or try to lessen it with his lips?  Which would be the more painful was not something upon which he really wanted to reflect.

      “…ok.  And you factored in my overtime?”

      “I did.  The hours you have worked have been fully compensated and will continue to be for as long as you provide care to Gregory.”

      “Same rate as John?”

      “Exactly.”

      “I can live with that.”

Should he press for a thank you?  No… it was not warranted for his own utter neglect of his clear and specific responsibilities and would likely only embarrass both himself and his brother.  The end result of that would surely be catastrophic and, likely, messy.

      “I’m gonna take off now, Skinny, but give me a call when Gregster wakes up and let me know how he’s doing.  If you’re worried, I’ll come back to give him a look-over.”

That was most certainly a thank you and one Mycroft was more than delighted to silently accept.

      “Acceptable.  Good day, Sherrinford.”

      “See ya, Skinny.”

Sam tap danced his way to the door and the car waiting for him at the end of the walk and finally let the smile he’d been holding in spread out over his face.  His brothers…they were pitiful excuses for human beings, but since he was too, this just might have a chance to work.  Now, he just had to plot revenge for getting tossed in the clink.  How long did it take to train a parrot to sing country music?  If it was less than a week, Mycroft better learn to like tunes with his dinner… 


	29. Chapter 29

      “I spy with my little eye, something that begins with the letter ‘C.’ “

      “Cabin.”

      “Nope.  Try again.”

      “Captain.”

      “Egotistical and, again, incorrect.  You really aren’t very good at this, are you, Martin?”

The ginger pilot gnashed his teeth and wondered if he shoved hard enough, could he push Douglas out the emergency door before either the plane crashed from being unattended, and depressurized, or Arthur noticed and made him sit down for a little chat.

      “Cheese.”

      “Good one.”

      “I got it?”

      “No.  But you did notice the inconsiderate crumb on my lapel and spared me the humiliation of being seen in public with less than perfect grooming.”

Douglas flicked the tiny speck of cheese off his jacket and motioned for Martin to continue on.

      “Clouds?”

      “No.”

      “Cumulus?”

      “Which are clouds.”

      “Yes, but you would tell me no on principle because I didn’t specify the type of cloud and you didn’t want to reward imprecision of language.”

      “You do have me there.  But, still, no.”

      “Then, I give up.”

      “So soon?”

      “Douglas, you’ve probably chosen something so indiscernible and esoteric that my chance of guessing it amounts to naught.”

      “You’re no fun.”

      “Now that we have that out of the way, what exactly did your little eye, spy?”

      “What?  Oh, Christmas.”

      “What!  That’s not… you can’t spy Christmas!”

      “I _can_ spy Christmas.  Saw its Father fly by in his sleigh just a moment ago, as a matter of fact.  Didn’t you notice me waving?”

      “Once again, you’ve cheated your way to victory.  Bravo, Mr. Richardson.  Very well done.”

      “Thank you.  And, bravo to you, for heroically ignoring the rather pointed hint I just threw you, in a very collegial fashion, I might add, to help keep your new and fragile marriage a happy and successful union.”

      “Hint?  What hint?”

      “Martin… from one married, well, formerly-married, man to another, who hopes _not_ to be a formerly-married one… Christmas.”

      “Is this some form of code?”

      “Apparently it is.”

      “Well, can you decipher it into plain language for me?”

Douglas shook his head and heaved a sigh.  Martin was, against all expectations, a good husband to Arthur, but he did need… management… now and again, especially with a spouse that _was_ Arthur.

      “Very well.  If you do not provide Arthur with a Christmas that merits its own kingdom in the Disney universe, you might as well erect a tent behind your home and resign yourself to having your tea with the little woodland creatures that your husband delights in feeding.”

Arthur’s menagerie _was_ a kingdom in the Disney universe.  Between the various animals and birds that had decided their property was a very agreeable winter residence, they could likely be declared the national zoo.  And, yes… Christmas.

      “If you believe for a moment I haven’t already been thinking about that, then you’re not as smart as you like to proclaim you are.”

      “Ah.  That must be why you’ve been so dyspeptic lately.”

      “I have not!  It’s just…”

      “Yes?”

      “You’re _right_.  Arthur wants and deserves a wonderful Christmas and… not having a rent payment every month has been a big help, but… it’s not as if living is free.  Utility costs, groceries, which is a big expense with Arthur’s... creativity… in the kitchen, wood for the fire, household things we actually need now because we have a house… somehow, no, not somehow because I know how, but at least we don’t have a television license to shoulder since we’re operating on some form of government exemption because our telly is classed as ‘government property’ that functions for government business.”

      “That’s true, actually.  Sherry tells me that the stork welcomes Arthur’s lengthy and in-depth discussions on the current roster of television offerings and the various opinions of and impacts on the local citizenry for the sociological context and, most likely, the ability to fine-tune the programming to better perpetuate the government’s use of the television industry as a vehicle for mind control.”

      “Wonderful.  Arthur’s the little brother to Big Brother.  Could my life _get_ any better?”

      “Given that it’s you – no.  But, back to Christmas…”

      “Do we have to?”

      “No… no, we don’t.  As long as you’re alright with Arthur’s Christmas stocking being a discarded sock you found along the roadside that you filled with truly gladdening items such as half a fork and some carpet lint.”

      “Which half of the fork?”

      “Really, Martin?”

      “Well, it makes a difference!  One half is useful, unlike the other.  Unless you split it lengthwise, of course, so it could still do its duty, just on a slightly narrower scale.”

Apparently, enforced proximity with Arthur had contagious results.

      “Yes, nicely analyzed.  Now, back to the issue and I shall say for the record that _any_ form of fork is not an appropriate Christmas gift.  Or Christmas decoration.  Or Christmas dinner.”

      “I am very much aware of that.”

      “Good.  And, with that awareness, how are you planning on tending to those particular items that a fork is not?”

      “I don’t know!  Alright… I don’t know.  I’ve… I’ve never really had to plan a Christmas, tend to all the details…”

      “But you did such a masterful job with your sugar mouse when we flew to Molokai.”

      “Thank you.  Thank you so very much.”

      “You’re most welcome.  Though I would have supposed, by now, your loving spouse would have inundated you with ideas and suggestions to make the planning a simple thing.”

      “Did you just use ‘Arthur’ and ‘simple’ in the same sentence?”

      “Yes, I did.  And I realize the grievous, tragic nature of my error.  And by your haunted and aggrieved expression, I predict that you aren’t as woefully far behind with your planning as I had thought, are you?”

      “The weight of catalogs on the kitchen table, alone, would sink a battleship.”

      “I look very forward to seeing the newspaper article on Fitton’s newest holiday attraction.  They’ll likely send the photographer out for a few snaps, as long as its after school hours and his mother says its alright.”

The only thing that stopped Martin from dropping his head until his forehead hit something was that the something he would hit was the control stick and he had far more respect for it than that.  The stick, not his head.

      “Of course, Martin… you know…”

      “What?  What do I know?”

      “Oh… it’s just that with the business infusion from one Mr. Farmer, Carolyn has actually not scheduled us to fly over Christmas and, I suspect, might appreciate a relaxing holiday enjoying the sights and sounds of somewhere other than Fitton, which has neither sights nor sounds to boast of.”

      “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      “Much to my lingering regret.  Shall I, again, speak plainly?”

      “Are you able?”

      “Funny.  Anyway, London is supposed to be enchanting during the Christmas season and I have little doubt Carolyn would relish several days of leisure enjoying all the city has to offer the discriminating visitor.”

      “Carolyn can’t afford London at Christmas!  Carolyn can’t afford London any of the other 364 days of the year, either.”

      “Not without help.”

      “Oh, no.  No, not… put that right out of your mind.”

      “By chance, did Sir actually glean my meaning?  Oh, happy day.”

      “Douglas… I am not having Mycroft pay for a Christmas holiday in London for Carolyn so Arthur and I can celebrate there, as well, and not have Arthur worry his mother being left alone.”

      “Well, she won’t be alone in any case, because a rather homely and pedantic chap will most certainly be dogging her heels, however dear Arthur would certainly want to be near his mother at Christmas and if _she_ is in London, then _Arthur_ is in London and the drudgery of festooning your nest and sorting out all the pesky details of Christmas day will fall to other hands.  Willing and wealthy hands, to boot.”

Martin scowled and said nothing in fear he might mention that such an idea _had_ been floated through the Crieff-Shappey household a time or two, usually after a phone call with the willing and wealthy hands in question.  Mycroft would adore having them come and spend Christmas in the city and, unhelpfully, his opinion had been championed by Sherlock, though his point of view was that misery shared was misery lessened.

      “Martin… I _do_ have a mole in London, you know.”

      “A rat, you mean.”

      “Same family.  And that particular rodent has informed me that an invitation _was_ issued and that the hold-up on acceptance is a person who shall remain nameless.  Though, for the record, his name is Martin Crieff.”

      “That’s not true!  It’s only… partially true.  Arthur’s also not entirely certain.  The idea of our first Christmas together being in our own house…”

      “That conversation traipsed down magical path, didn’t it.”

      “You have no idea.  So, part of the day, he’s visiting the shops and picking up odds and ends to decorate the house and the other part he’s imagining what it would be like to spend Christmas in Mycroft’s house with the whole family.”

      “Truly an arduous burden for you, I’m sure.  Can’t you affect a compromise?”

      “Have Mycroft transport our house to London so that we can spend Christmas in his courtyard?”

      “No… but have you possibly considered a temporal solution?”

      “Doing one of those where you spend Christmas Eve in one place and Christmas Day in another?  I think Fitton and London are a bit too far apart for that.”

      “I was thinking of something with a slightly more protracted timescale.”

      “Boxing Day?”

      “No… longer than that.”

      “New Year’s Eve?”

      “A good one, but, still, no.  Christmas, Martin…”

      “Christmas, Douglas.  See? I can say that, too.”

      “I see now why it was destined that Arthur marry you.  With Arthur’s rather uncontrollable creativity and your complete lack of same, together you about balance out to a average person.”

      “None of which is making me understand what you…”

      “Whereas the uncreative might recognize a single Christmas per year, those more infused with joie de vivre might recognize another.”

      “Wha… oh.  _Oh_ …”

      “I believe the right end of the stick has finally been grabbed.”

      “You mean Summer Christmas.”

      “I do, indeed.  Since Arthur’s enthusiasm for all seasons is equal and plentiful, I believe it would not be difficult to turn his attention to a warmer celebration that he might say… host in his very own garden, with his carefully tended flowers making a smashing show for his guest’s enjoyment.”

      “We celebrate Christmas, well Winter Christmas, in London and Summer Christmas in Fitton.”

      “Can you truly imagine Arthur refusing the opportunity to have _two_ Christmases per year, complete with decorations, enormous meals, the alcohol-fueled bickering of family and presents?”

      “He could finally have his luau.”

      “With no set pattern for tradition, he most certainly _could_ have his luau.  And a truly original tree.”

      “That’s… that’s not a bad idea.  I mean… there’s lots of time to plan for that and, as you said, there’s no particular standard to uphold so… if I… I mean, we, didn’t quite create a celebration that… we could create _any_ celebration and it would be perfect because there’s nothing, really, to compare it to.”

      “A most astute, and concise, summary.”

Martin thought a moment, but that moment wasn’t even necessary because… it was perfect.  Arthur could have his big London Christmas, but, also, his big Christmas at home.  Mycroft and the others, given enough notice, could certainly make the trip in June for a day or two of garden parties and grass skirts.  Well, maybe not the grass skirts, but as long as Arthur could wear _his_ that would probably be enough to satisfy his spouse.

      “Shall I assist you in convincing Arthur into a slightly less-traditional celebration of the debacle… I mean, spectacle… that is Christmas?”

      “No… no I can do this.”

      “Are you sure?  There’s precious little time and I’m certain I heard Arthur making inquiries about hiring a manger to place in front of your house and the necessary livestock to start his own nativity play.”

The odds were too high that this was _not_ a piece of Douglas’s fabricated hyperbole for Martin to wave it off out of hand.

      “Today.  Once we’re home.”

      “Very good, Sir.  Oh, and Sir… don’t forget that your London festivities will truly be festive for I, in an astoundingly altruistic act of self-sacrifice, will be attending, as well.”

      “Aren’t you supposed to spend Christmas with your own family?  What there is of it, that is.”

      “The wonderful thing about being divorced is the lack of access to cherished offspring for joyous holidays.  Oh, did I say ‘wonderful?’  I meant dreadful.  Sorry, I’m still a touch off my game from the diabolical cheese crumb incident.”

Martin sighed, but neither loudly nor peevishly, because if there was something he understood, it was the loneliness that holidays could bring when you didn’t have someone to share them with you.

      “Please don’t tell me you and Sam have something ridiculous planned.”

      “Fine, I won’t tell you.  It can be a surprise.”

This sigh _was_ loud and peevish and Martin could only hope that whatever nonsense the two most infuriating people in England had planned, it didn’t involve any innocent bystanders.  Or less-than-innocent bystanders.  Please let there be enough people left standing to make Arthur’s Summer Christmas a success… if, of course, Summer Christmas was a go…

__________

If Arthur’s running around the house, literally, _around_ the house across the lawn, yelling and waving his hands in the air wasn’t enough of a sign, his chanting SUMMER CHRISTMAS!, might be considered the linchpin evidence.  Apparently, Summer Christmas was officially a go.

      “Arthur!  Arthur, come back inside, it’s freezing out here!”

      “But… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Fortunately, the neighbors had quickly become used to a dancing steward and kindly didn’t call the police to come and help the poor man who had obviously wandered away from the people who were supposed to be watching him.

      “All done?”

      “Can I have one more?”

      “A small one.”

      “Ok.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

      “The shimmy at the end was a nice touch.”

      “Well, I’d been doing the hula a lot, already, and thought it’d be nice to finish with something a little different.”

      “Very effective.  Now, come inside?”

      “Oh!  Yes, my toes are getting a little nippy.”

Much to Arthur’s surprise, polar bear slippers weren’t as cold-repellant as their namesake species might indicate.  Dancing into the house and trading them for cozy socks was a comfortable move, especially since the socks were also festooned with the smiling faces of _Ursus maritimus_.

      “There, that has to be much warmer.  And look!  I’ve got some nice hot tea made, so you can warm yourself inside _and_ out.”

      “Thanks, Skip!  And _thanks_ , Skip.  This… this really is the best idea in the history of ideas.”

      “I’m just happy you’re happy, Arthur.  I know how hard it is when you really want two things, but can only have one.”

      “I do have a bit of a problem with that.  Remember that time I wanted the big caramel coffee drink but I also wanted that big minty coffee drink because it was hot and we were in Atlanta and they have mint when it’s hot?”

      “Yes, and your solution of having both in one very big cup didn’t go entirely well, did it?”

      “No, I have to admit it didn’t.  I mean, I still drank my Minty Caramel Coffee Curiosity, because I’m very much against being wasteful, but… oh, my stomach wasn’t entirely happy with the decision.”

      “Well, no stomach worries now, except your eating too much at Mycroft’s house and then, again, at your big luau.”

      “Yes!  Lots of brilliant food and music… and presents!  Ooh… we do really have to get started on that, especially now that we have to have everything bought and wrapped to take with us to London.”

Something Martin had hoped they could avoid with a family agreement to exchange nothing but well-wishes on Christmas morning, but he absolutely no confidence his luck would stretch that far.

      “I’m certain we have plenty of time.  Now, shouldn’t you be sharing your good news?”

      “Yes!  Right!  I’ll tell Mum first because she’s closest and then I’ll tell Mycroft.  I think this is going to be the best Christmas ever, Skip.  I really, really, really do.”

Arthur launched himself towards Martin, who caught the human projectile and braced for his husband’s bear-like hug, which was quick in coming.

      “You go and make your calls, Arthur and I’ll see about dinner.  How does that sound?”

      “Brilliant!  We’ve got lamb or fish or pork or cabbage or…”

      “As I said, just leave it to me.  Go on, now… commence phoning.”

Martin used his most captainy voice which, as usual, made Arthur giggle, but it did get the steward in motion.  Saying a small thank you to the universe for having let this go successfully, Martin braved the kitchen and began looking for something to prepare for dinner.  Not that the _looking_ was the difficult part… the hardest bit was excavating the refrigerator and pantry of the eight-thousand items they contained to find what he needed for his meal.  Arthur appreciated a well-stocked kitchen, so a well-stocked kitchen they did have… maybe they should look into planting vegetables as well as flowers next year.  Invest in a few chickens, too…

__________

      “London?  Christmas?  Arthur Shappey, whatever are you going on about?”

      “Isn’t it brilliant, Mum?  We can all go to London for Christmas and see the lights and decorations and hear the music and smell the cold and Mycroft’s house is going to look amazing, I just know it will but if he needs a little help getting things to look nice and Christmasy, I’ll be happy to lend a hand because I’m something of an expert at that, as you well know.”

Carolyn was actually happily enjoying her rather spare holiday décor this year.  Tripping over the power cords that enabled Arthur’s version of Christmas cheer to flourish did get tiresome.

      “Arthur… are you saying you are willing to forego Christmas here in Fitton for holiday merrymaking in London where someone else has to handle the cooking, cleaning and entertainment?”

      “Oh, well… when you put it that way…”

      “When I put it that way, it becomes, quite surprisingly, an excellent idea.”

      “Hurray!”

      “Of course, I expect the same accommodations as I enjoyed for your wedding.”

      “What?  But Mum… you stayed in a hotel for my wedding.”

      “Precisely.”

      “But Mum… that’s not Mycroft’s house.”

      “Well-spotted.”

      “ _But_ _Mum_ … how can you have Christmas at Mycroft’s house if you’re not actually _at_ Mycroft’s house?”

      “Herc and I can pop in and lift a glass of what, I am certain, will be obscenely-expensive spirits to pay our respects to Scrooge and his ghosts and, besides that, enjoy a blissfully quiet and stupendously luxurious holiday.  Oh!  I read about one of those fancy pet spas in London.  If we are going to indulge ourselves this holiday season, Snoopadoop should be accorded the same.  This time, she shall travel with us, so inform Mr. Farmer that my reservation should be for… two and a half… and I will not stand for her receiving anything other than a robust greeting from management and staff when we arrive.”

Because, of course, that would mean the _owner_ of said canine would receive such a greeting and if Herc happened to be there with his phone collecting photographic evidence to lord over… share… with certain vituperative hens in Fitton…and her sister… then wasn’t that just a happy little extra to make the holiday truly special.

      “Oh… ok.  That’s very nice, actually, because I was a bit worried about Snoop not having a family Christmas, so that’s really a good idea.”

      “You say that as if you expected something less.  Do watch yourself, Arthur.  Your newly-married status will not protect you from hand-washing GERTI inside and out if my ire rises above the current level.”

      “HA!  You wouldn’t do that, Mum.  Remember what happened the last time?”

Oh yes.  Arthur _did_ have a difficult time remember which cleaning products were not on the approved list for mixing together.  It took rather a long time to clear the London-fog-like cloud of toxic gas from GERTI’s interior and the smell continued to remind them of his lack of chemical aptitude for quite some days afterwards.

      “True.  I don’t know what I was thinking.”

      “You were distracted by Christmas excitement, weren’t you?”

      “Yes, that does sound like me.  Now, remember that the pick-up is early in the morning and I will not tolerate lateness.”

      “We’ll be ready, Mum.  I set our three clocks five minutes apart and the third one is in the loo, so when you get up to turn if off… well, you’re already in the loo, so why not do in there what you have to do in there after you wake up, since you’re already in there, I mean?”

      “Highly efficient of you, I’m sure.  Goodbye, Arthur.  I will see you tomorrow.”

      “Bye, Mum!  And I’ll remember everything you said to tell Mycroft.”

      “That would be very wise on your part.”

Arthur grinned at the disconnected call and immediately began phoning the second person on his list.  Someone who would be very happy about the chat and, if there was one thing that Arthur Shappey very much liked to do, it was making people happy…

__________

      “FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!”

Mycroft wrung his hands and forcibly held closed his lips so he didn’t order John to stop with Lestrade’s exercises.  Already he had suffered the doctor’s wrath for sacking the physical therapist John and Sam had agreed upon and another bit of imperialistic behavior might find him banished from the exercise room altogether.

      “It’s alright, mate.  You’re doing well.  Just a second more… just one more… ok, relax.”

Lestrade whoofed out a large mass of air and let his body try to shake off the previous few seconds of misery.  He’d been warned, no doubt about that, but… FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!!

      “Ok?”

      “Yeah, John… I’m good.”

      “My dear, are you certain?  Please do not affect a courageous disposition purely to maintain your masculine ego.”

      “I think I shat that out a few moments ago, actually.”

      “Really, Gregory…”

Lestrade shared a smile with John, though his was a shaky facsimile of its usual brilliance.

      “I’m fine, Mycroft.  It’s just… it’s bloody hard, alright!  Doesn’t mean it’s hurting me, though.  I mean it’s hurting me, but it’s not _hurting_ me.  Christ… I think I left my brain in that steaming pile with my masculine ego.”

John patted his friend’s shoulder and shot Mycroft a look that said Lestrade was alright, despite appearances, and not to worry.  Which Mycroft would do anyway, but they certainly didn’t need another dust up like they’d had earlier in the week because Sam wasn’t here to back up his side with filthy and disgusting threats that even John was too genteel to make.  Mycroft had been apocalyptically angry watching the physical therapist work on Lestrade and it was all the two doctors could do to keep the young man with his citizenship intact.  Not that the poor PT had done anything wrong, quite the contrary, but anyone causing Lestrade distress was going to be subject to Mycroft’s wrath and there were only a few people in this world who could brave that and have a chance of coming through marginally unscathed.

      “Perhaps a small rest is in order.  You have been exerting yourself to an excessive degree and a few scant moments to allow your system to calm itself surely would be helpful.”

Lestrade’s response was to dive into another repetition of his current exercise and grunt like a wild boar until John called time.

      “See?  No r… rest needed.”

      “You are upsettingly flushed and your breathing is labored.  I do not find this acceptable.”

Mycroft’s nervous-nellying was not acceptable, in John’s opinion, but they had bartered the middle Holmes brother’s presence at the occasional session for not declaring the upstairs bedroom off-limits and returning Lestrade to sleeping downstairs while he endured the effort of his therapy.  Their patient had paled at Mycroft’s suggestion and neither he nor Sam was going to let Lestrade lose that little reward at the end of his hard days.

      “Mycroft… we talked about this.”

      “Yes, John, however, I feel you intentionally diminished the description of Gregory’s suffering in our discussions.”

      “You know that’s not true.  I was perfectly clear about this whole business, with both you and Greg, and so don’t try and pretend this is taking you by surprise.”

Oh, there was no pretense on Mycroft’s part.  He had listened to every one of John and Sam’s words and none of them, not a one, prepared him for what his fiancé was suffering.  First his initial injury, then the further injuries of their plane landing… the mental torment that haunted him and now this.  There was nothing in this, _nothing_ at all, that was fair and that his Gregory was meeting it valorously was not at all a consolation.

      “This is in no manner…”

The rest of Mycroft’s rebuttal was cut off by the ringing of his mobile, with a familiar ringtone that put a smile on all three men’s faces.

      “Ah, Arthur… how good of you to call.”

      “Hi, Mycroft!  And Hi to everybody else who might be there with you.”

      “That would be Gregory and John, at the moment, and I will happily relay your greeting to them.  And how do I find you this evening, my boy?”

John made shooing motions at Mycroft, who finally got the hint and took his conversation out of the room so Greg could continue on with his therapy.

      “I think we’re going to have to plan a schedule where we do this when he goes off for the day because I suspect this is hurting Mycroft a lot worse than it is me.”

John nodded in agreement with Greg’s assessment and wished there was any possibility it could go a different way.

      “Oh, he is.  You’re in pain and there’s not a thing he can do about it, no matter how rich or powerful he is.  It’s like when you were in hospital… he felt pretty useless and that’s what we expect with the family of patients.  They want to help, want to badly… there’s just nothing they can do but be there and offer what support they can.”

      “And there is nothing Mycroft hates more than feeling useless.”

      “Hence his near-Sherlock level of hysteria and drama.”

      “He’s getting near Sam’s level and that’s a scary thing.”

      “Yeah… I was thinking the same thing, but didn’t want to say it out loud in case it brought all of the Biblical plagues down on London.”

      “That was probably smart.  I admit I’m not feeling particularly altruistic at the moment, so I didn’t really think about cataclysmic destruction of the city.”

      “And you shouldn’t be.  You shouldn’t be thinking about Mycroft, either, right now.  Just focus on what we’re doing so you can tell me if there _is_ something I should worry about.”

      “Got a cheat sheet from the physical therapist?”

      “Got a _medical_ degree, thank you very much.  But, yes.  I had them jot down common problems and things to watch for along with the exercise regimen.  They do this a LOT more than I ever would so they’re really the experts.  Of course, His Majesty doesn’t see it that way.”

      “I don’t think he believes _you’re_ even the expert.”

      “That’s true.  But, that’s also normal.  I’m the doctor, but the patient and the family always know better than I do.  It can be a misery sometimes getting people to take their medication as you prescribe or follow the diet or exercise plan you give them.  They know best and you’re some prat who wandered in off the street and found a doctor’s coat that happened to fit.”

      “Poor you.”

      “Some days it feels that way.  Of course, it’s probably better when you have a private gym to stop in and visit now and then to work off the irritation.  This really is a nice room…”

Lestrade looked around and smiled because yes… it _was_ a nice room.  A nice room that he was going to get a lot of use… non-painful use… out of as soon as possible.  Mycroft had the best equipment on the market and this new weight machine was brilliant!  Like John said, have a rough day, come home, work off that evil feeling in your gut, enjoy a hot shower and have your lover meet you with a quality beer when you step out.  Ok, the last part wasn’t precisely necessary, but it made the whole package a lot more pleasant to think about.

      “You covet my toys, don’t you, John?”

      “Absolutely!  I don’t have time, really, to visit a gym, but if I had something at home, it might be another place to hide when Sherlock was being… Sherlock… and work off the pints from the night before as a side benefit.”

      “Smart.  That’s what I like about you, John.  Very, very smart.”

      “Thanks.  Now how about I capitalize on that and have you finish your routine?”

      “Boo!”

      “No pain, no gain.”

      “I was wondering when you’d say that.”

      “It’s rather required, I think.”

      “Likely.  Alright, how many more?”

      “Five.  And a few minutes on the treadmill.”

      “Then beer?”

      “Work off a few calories, then replace them right away with beer.  Sad.”

      “You can have one, too.”

      “Oh, then yes.”

__________ 

      “This is a brilliant night, if I do say so myself, Mycroft.  The most brilliant of brilliant nights.  I think we’re in Skip Brilliant! land, actually, and I’ve tried very hard to reserve that for only the most brilliant of brilliant things.”

Arthur, apparently, was having a pleasant evening.

      “How delightful to hear.  It is certainly a lovely thing to enjoy one’s time set aside for relaxation.  Is there anything, in specific, that is making that time particularly enjoyable?”

      “There is.  Remember when we talked about Christmas and I was a bit wiffy-waffy about how to spend it and you were very disappointed even though you said whatever I decided was alright with you, but you were actually telling a bit of a fib because you really want us to spend Christmas with you in London?”

Yes, that conversation was one that was still quite clear in his mind, unfortunately.

      “I do, and I was being completely honest.  Your and Martin’s holiday is completely at your discretion and you should celebrate it as you see fit.”

      “Fib.  But, that’s ok, because…. WE’RE COMING TO LONDON!”

Mycroft felt a bit chagrined that he actually gasped in excitement, but since there was no one to hear it but Arthur…

      “That is splendid news, my boy, simply splendid.  Truly it shall be a blessed holiday with you and Martin sharing it with us.”

      “And Douglas.”

Ah.

      “Mr. Richardson hopes to be part of our festivities?”

      “Oh yes.  He and Doctor Sam have already been talking about it.  I’m not certain if Douglas is going to stay with you or at Doctor Sam’s flat, but he’s definitely coming with us.”

Was there a chance that if he paid Sherrinford's rent, it would ensure that Douglas would spend their time in London under the odious fool’s roof?  It was certainly worth a try.

      “Well, the more the merrier.  You, Martin and Mr. Richardson will be welcomed gladly in…”

      “Don’t forget Mum.”

Perfect.

      “Oh, is your mother coming?

      “Yes!  And Herc.  They want to say in a hotel, though, the one they stayed in for the wedding.  I tried to talk her out of it and have them stay with us at your house, but she said no.”

Thank heavens for small favors.

      “And our more becomes even merrier.”

      “Especially with Snoopadoop.  She loves Christmas!  Rolling about in the paper, tugging at all the ribbons, eating snacks…”

And the dog.  This was becoming quite the stereotypical family affair…

      “Mum said she wanted Snoopadoop to get a personal hello from the hotel staff, I think so they’ll get to know her and if she runs off they know who to bring her back to.  You can do that, can’t you, Mycroft?”

The manager, actually, the owner also, of that particular hotel would be very happy to kiss the dog on its nose if it guaranteed them his continued favor.  It was not a stated thing that his personal referrals and bookings for various dignitaries and other personages paid for the rather costly renovations of their indoor pool, however, his invitation to its official reopening was certainly not because he enjoyed the social phenomenon of a ‘pool party.’

      “Consider it done.  That particular hotel is quite used to guests with companion animals and strive to treat both human and canine with equal respect.  Is… is there anyone else on our guest list?”

      “Hmmmmm…. No.  No, I can’t think of anyone.”

That was a bit of grace.  There really was no discounting Arthur issuing invitations to half of his little hamlet to enjoy the splendor offered by London at Christmastime.

      “Very well, then. I shall see everything made ready.  I am most excited for this, Arthur, about that I shall not lie.”

      “I am, too.  I really did want to come, but… it was hard to think of having my own little house and not having _Christmas_ in my own little house.  But, Skip thought of a brilliant idea and this way we can go to London for Christmas and you can come to Fitton next Christmas.”

Hmmmm… given their family was now a blended one, it was not entirely unexpected that one might have to compromise a bit with holidays, alternating locations over the years so that everyone had the chance to play host to their celebrations.

      “I find that a very acceptable compromise.  This year we shall make our base of operations London and next year, it shall be Fitton.”

      “Umm… ok, this is where I get a bit confused because… well, it’s like in school when you say this year or next year and that’s not quite right because if you say next year in March you could mean October, which is next year in school time, but not next year in real time, so when you say next year, I’m not really sure if you mean real time or Christmas time which is an entirely different thing.”

Mycroft’s mind tried to assemble the various bits of data from Arthur’s stream of words into a coherent picture and found that, as was often the case, he was failing spectacularly.

      “I rather believe what you term ‘real’ time and ‘Christmas’ time are aligned according to the same calendar.”

      “Not at all!  I mean, if we look at real time, then next Christmas is next year, but if we look at Christmas time, then it’s this year.  Next year in Christmas time would be the Christmas after next, so you can see why I might be a bit confused!  And… oh, I didn’t think about it, but if we started counting from last Christmas, _this_ would be next Christmas and it would line up with real time so it might just be me that’s making a muddle of things.  Well, I think I’m feeling a bit better about all of this now!”

Was it cowardly to forward a transcript of this call to Sherlock and request a translation?  His brother seemed to have a better understanding of Arthur’s thought processes than anyone else on the planet.

      “Arthur… do both of your timelines support the use of months?”

      “Sure!  Months are important, because how else would you know when it was your birthday or Halloween?”

      “Very good.  Now, we are quickly approaching Christmas, are we not?”

      “We very much are.  _Very_ quickly actually, which is why I told Skip we need to stop shilly-shallying and start our shopping.”

      “Excellent.  Now, what is the name of the month in which the Christmas we are quickly approaching occurs?”

      “That’s an easy one!  December.  I do like playing question games with you, Mycroft.  I win a LOT, which isn’t often the case.”

      “I am very glad to bring you joy.  Now, and do concentrate for this… in which month shall we find ourselves again celebrating Christmas?”

      “That’s easy, too!”

      “Wonderful.”

      “June!”

As the tumbleweeds rolled across the empty plain of Mycroft’s mind, he relaxed a moment and enjoyed the sound of the gentle breeze and distant howl of a lonely wolf.

      “I… pardon?”

      “Did I win?”

      “I… I am not entirely certain.  Whereas I grant that there are certain things which do not garner the fullest of my attention, the setting of official holidays is not one of them.  I hope it is not too great a disappointment to you, Arthur, but Christmas is a single-occurrence event that takes place in December, though I will concede there is argument that it is ill-timed to actually serve as a celebration of the birth of the Christ child.”

      “Well, yeah, the Christmas in December only happens once a year, but the one in June does, too, so you get two once-a-year Christmases every year.”

      “Arthur… there is no Christmas in June.”

      “Yes, there is.  Summer Christmas is in June.”

      “I have no idea of what you are speaking.”

      “What…. Oh no.  Don’t tell me… Mycroft… just how unholidayish has your life been?”

Exceedingly, apparently.

      “Perhaps you might be so good as to enlighten me?”

Something Arthur did with enough exuberance that Mycroft was certain he could feel his mobile doing its own little hula in his hand.

      “I consider myself, now, fully enlightened and, further, positively astounded by the… color and vivacity of your intentions.”

      “Then you’ll come?  And get Mr. Sherlock and Doctor Watson and Doctor Sam to come, too?  I didn’t mention Greg because if you come I know Greg will because he won’t want to be alone when he could be with you having coconut cake and dancing to that lovely tropical music they play when they want you to think a film or telly programme is in Hawaii.”

Gregory would commandeer a vehicle and drive himself to Fitton if he was left behind, so, yes… his fiance would be ported with the rest of the London contingent.

      “I cannot, with full certainty, ever guarantee my time, as you well know, however, I can grant you the promise that if it is at all possible, then I shall attend your soiree.  And, I will see the others attend, whether or not my presence is possible.”

      “HURRAY!  This is going to be brilliant!  I’m already going to start planning so it’s the best Summer Christmas anyone’s ever had!”

Arthur’s version of tropical music was loudly hummed and Mycroft had no doubt the steward was dancing happily on the other end of the line.

      “I am delighted with your excitement, dear boy.  And, I suppose, I also have my own planning now to attend to.”

Something he had been quietly doing for a short while already, just in case Christmas would be more than the London segment of the family, who might not even be convinced into any form of gathering if the rest of their cadre was not going to make the trip.

      “Isn’t that fun!  I love planning parties almost as much as I like going to parties.  Oh!  But, if you need any help, you just have to phone and I’ll be happy to give you some ideas.”

      “I shall firmly keep that in mind.  I know that you will provide both timely and effective assistance, no matter the issue.”

      “Thanks, Mycroft!  And… what?  Oh, Skip…”

      “Arthur?”

      “I… I think I have to go now, Mycroft.  Skip’s made the kitchen all… smoky.”

      “I heard nothing to indicate a problem.  Are your smoke detectors failing to function?”

      “Well… sometimes I make the kitchen a little smoky, too, so we decided a very smart plan was to take out the batteries when we start to cook, so the neighbors don’t get a bit of a fright.  I don’t know if you know this, but the smoke alarms are _very_ loud, especially when it’s really, really late at night and all you wanted to do was make a little snack and… the firemen in Fitton are very nice, just so you know.  Oh, though I really should say fire _fighters_ now, because Daphne isn’t a man, even though it’s a bit hard to tell when she’s wearing her hat and fireman’s clothes.”

      “Then, I suggest we terminate this conversation you so might concentrate on other, more immediate, issues.  I shall relay the good news to all relevant parties and make the necessary reservations for your mother.”

      “Yes!  Thanks, Mycroft.  This is… well, this is going to be a brilliant Christmas and I’m… well, I’m going to say goodbye now, because I’m starting to get a bit weepy, though that might be because of the smoke.”

      “Goodbye, Arthur.  And give my regards to Martin.”

Mycroft permitted himself a tiny, gleeful smile and let the wash of contentment flow freely through him.  Christmas with the family... a house that rang with laughter and conversation… it was something for which he had so long dreamed.  A Christmas not terribly dissimilar to those he had enjoyed as a small boy when his foul and fetid brother was the one in charge of the planning.  There would be music, decorations, sinfully-rich food and gifts… yes, this _was_ to be a brilliant Christmas.  And it was only the first… at least until June, when another first would greet their family, but if anything marked their rather eclectic group, it was their astounding ability to create new and fascinating traditions…  


	30. Chapter 30

      “Please…”

      “I think this is not…”

      “Pleeeeease…”

      “Really, my dear, I would rather…”

      “Pleeeeeaaaassseeee…”

Mycroft realized that his lover could likely drag out that single word for fully half an hour if it won him his desire and that retreat would save them both a great deal of time and effort.

      “You will promise to…”

      “Tell you immediately if I’m tired or hurting.  Yes, I will make you that promise, so can we go?”

Practically bouncing up and down in his chair… Mycroft knew if he said no, his lover’s heart would be shattered and he simply could not look into those expectant eyes and deliver the blow.

      “Yes, we shall leave to accomplish a bit of Christmas shopping once we have finished our lovely breakfast.”

      “Yes!”

Oh good heavens… now it was a gentle shimmy that served only to enflame Mycroft’s adoration of his fiancé, something that was becoming a bit dangerous since his Gregory was rather thrillingly regaining his ability to participate in bedroom activities.

      “You’re thinking sexy thoughts, aren’t you, love.”

      “For what reason would you say such a thing, Gregory Lestrade?”

      “I’ve got my ways of knowing.  Didn’t get to be a DI without having _some_ ability to notice things, say, for example, a particular little smile that always means you’re thinking about one or both of us naked and doing sweetly or filthily sexy things to each other.”

Mycroft smiled a different smile this time and wondered if he would ever _not_ be enchanted by the man sitting across from him at the kitchen table.

      “I am caught out!  Verily, I shall never be able to conceal my love and desire for you, but I find that a terribly agreeable situation, so all is well in the world.”

      “And, I’ll make that world all the well-er later tonight.  I don’t have therapy today, so you don’t have to worry about me being miserable and cranky.  I’m going to use all that non-miserable and not-cranky energy to show you a good time in that huge bed of ours.  How does that sound.”

Like the heavenly chorus singing something highly inappropriate for their station.

      “I believe I have heard nothing finer.”

      “Then let’s finish this delicious breakfast and brave the wilds of shopping so we’ve got the evening free.  You have to go into the office for awhile, don’t you?”

      “Perhaps.  There are few issues that I am monitoring and, if my hand is directly needed to see them progress the way I believe they should, then I will require a few hours away from you, if you are sufficiently munificent to grant them.”

      “Oh, I suppose I’ll survive.  I’ve got a few programmes I’ve recorded that I need to watch, anyway, so Arthur and I can talk about them.  He’s very good about not spoiling anything before we get to have a chat, but I don’t like to make him wait too long, because I can feel him about to explode on the other end of the phone.”

      “Truly, Arthur’s enthusiasm is a tangible thing.  I wonder how dear Arthur would enjoy a chance to _demonstrate_ that enthusiasm to a broader audience.  Surely one of his favorite  programmes could accommodate a small role that…”

      “No!  No, you are not turning Arthur into some television celebrity!”

      “I did not say that, however, a tiny, shall we say, cameo appearance would not be an excessive thing.”

      “Mycroft, you’d set filming for that poor show back a week if you let Arthur on the set for a day.”

      “You are being overly pessimistic, my dear.  Highly uncharacteristic of you and, uncharitable, I might add, in this, the Christmas season.”

Greg glared at Mycroft, who smiled back, then laughed when Greg began wagging his finger as if he was scolding a disobedient puppy.

      “No putting Arthur on the telly.”

      “Would ‘on’ truly be the correct term?  I believe ‘on’ would be best reserved for penguins.”

      “Wrong!  You are not going to distract me with Monty Python!  Not fair so not gonna happen.”

      “One uses one’s tools, my dear, fair or not.”

      “You save that for SPECTRE or SMERSH or whoever it is you’re fighting today.  In this house, you play fair so I have _some_ chance of winning now and then.”

      “You win the vast majority of our domestic discussions, my dear, and are most aware of the fact.  It is to your credit that you do not wield your vast power for anything but good intent.”

      “We’ve got a family now, so I can’t continue my villainous ways.  That’d just be wrong.”

Lestrade smiled widely as the predicted giddy grin peeked out on Mycroft’s lips.  His lover was positively radiant when he thought about the motley group that had banded together and formed something real and precious.   And who was about to spend their first Christmas together, which had his Mycroft quivering in delight every time he thought about it.  Mycroft quivered _beautifully_ …

      “Our fragile little planet thanks you for it.  Now, one more bite and we shall be on to the second portion of our day.”

      “If you make that a slow bite, I can have another cup of coffee while I wait.”

      “Gregory… _more_ coffee?”

      “Hey!  I’ve got to build back my tolerance!  Can’t go back on the job with jitters because I had a second cup of coffee in the morning.  I should need… oh… eight cups before that happens.  And all before lunch, too.”

      “My dear, do we need a little chat about your caffeine addiction?”

      “No, because I’m not denying it, though you have to admit I’ve been severely denied my beloved coffee lately.  Really, I’m just trying to make up for lost time.”

      “I shall draw up a consumption schedule for you and see that you follow it to the letter.”

      “Help!  I’m being repressed!”

      “Utilization of banned weapons is a serious offense, Mr. Lestrade.”

      “Got a punishment in mind for a bad, bad boy?”

      “Several, actually.”

      “Good, we can talk about them while I have my coffee…”

__________

Mycroft really wasn’t sure who was more excited when the car arrived at Harrod’s, which he had chosen as much for the festivity it offered his Gregory as for the opportunities to shop as a couple.  The window displays, the decorations, the service, which was already on alert for the handsome man in the wheelchair to whom they would accord all possible courtesy and assistance in the shopping process.  This was after _he_ was put on alert that his lover might desire some time alone for his own shopping for a certain individual who was ‘a miserly bastard with the coffee and just watch it’ll be eggs next because you’ll be against cholesterol, too.’

      “Gregory, you simply must wait for the driver to erect your wheelchair.  You cannot, as you appear ready to do, dash to the windows and press your nose to the glass like a small child.”

      “Can too.  Though it’ll probably be a slow dashing and a few of the actual small children might have to pick me up after I get winded halfway there and have to sit down for a quick breathing break.  This is brilliant, love.  Really, I thought we’d just try to visit some of the small shops, but this… I always wanted to really do Harrods proper at Christmas, but never… well, just never.  Didn’t have the time or the person who would make it a trip _worth_ the time I didn’t have to begin with.”

      “Then I am happy to offer you this little experience.  In truth, I avoid most meccas of consumerism at all times of year, this season receiving no special dispensation, however, I believe I shall henceforth make an exception as I am tremendously looking forward to sharing this with you.”

      “Christmas tradition, it is!  Once a year, you and me, looking at things and seeing the spectacle and buying silly gifts because it’s just that sort of day.  Agreed?”

      “With all possible enthusiasm.”

Mycroft leaned over and gave Lestrade a kiss, then clasped their hands together and simply stared a moment into his fiancé’s warm, brown eyes.

      “Thank you, my dear.  For all of this and all that you are… thank you.”

Lestrade let another kiss suffice for his response, then laid another on Mycroft’s nose to seal the deal.

      “Are we ready, Mr. Holmes?”

      “We are ready, Mr. Lestrade.”

Sliding out of the car and assisting his partner into his chair, Mycroft drew in a deep breath of cold air and secretly did a mental dance at his excitement.  A tradition.  A true holiday tradition with a man who would soon be his spouse.  It had taken him a very long time to find this joy in life, but it _was_ his now and would be for a blissful number of years to come.

      “They sell coffee here, right?”

Or until his Gregory’s coffee cravings finally sent him to the great roasted beyond…

__________

      “Oh no, you’re home.”

The very last person Mycroft wanted to see when he stepped out of the kitchen with his cup of tea was the most infuriating of his brothers.

      “Yes, one would hardly expect me to be found in the home I actually own and call my personal residence.”

      “Do you ever work?  Seriously, I wonder sometimes if all this Master of the Universe stuff is bullshit and you’re actually a cheap knock-off Skeletor sitting on a plastic throne and roaring at people who ignore the fuck out of you.”

      “What in the world did any of that mean?”

      “I see action figures in someone’s Christmas future.”

      “I am giddy with glee.  And do you not have the most basic grasp of polite behavior so that ringing the bell to be asked into a home has escaped your notice?”

      “Why?  I have a key.”

      “How did you get a key to my door, Sherrinford?  I specifically made you return yours when your presence for Gregory’s health concerns was no longer a critical thing.”

      “Made one.”

      “I am feeling no surprise at this revelation.  Well, perhaps a small amount of surprise in that I assumed the answer would be that you stole one.”

      “Well, I did that, too.  Pickpocketed the Baby and made myself a copy of your house key.  He never even noticed, pitiful amateur.  In all honesty, Skinny, you were a better pickpocket at eight than Sherlock is now.  He’s tried to lift my wallet three times and I caught him every single time, poor fumble-fingered fucker.”

Now and then, having a reprobate brother had its benefits.  The pick pocketing and lock picking lessons had certainly come in handy over the years…

      “Be that as it may, it is considered appropriate to announce one’s self and seek admittance before entering another’s home.”

      “You sound like you’ve got a Miss Manners book shoved up your ass.  What’s wrong, Greg’s man-balloon need a little break?”

      “For your information, Gregory is resting as he had a particularly active morning.”

      “Good for you!  Always nice to start the day with a bang.  And I did mean the sexy kind of ‘bang,’ in case there was any confusion.”

      “I have learned to assume anything you say has a sexual connotation, Sherrinford, so confusion is handily avoided.  And, not that it is any of your business, but we took the morning for Christmas shopping.”

      “I see… and did you decorate Greg’s wheelchair with tinsel and lights?”

      “Do I really need to answer that?”

      “Nah, I’ll just picture it in my head.  And you went to Harrod’s didn’t you, stuck-up little monkey that you are.”

      “I… we may have visited that location, however, it was the parsimonious solution and eased the experience for Gregory.”

      “You just didn’t want to get soiled by normal-people’s dirt.  But, I’ll give you this… Greg probably loved it and the staff was more than happy to give him a hand when he wanted to sneak off and do his shopping for you, so he didn’t get overexerted.”

      “Oh goody, do I win a prize?”

      “Want a kiss?”

      “I believe I may be ill.”

      “Ok, then.  Sounds like my last date.  Besides, I already brought you something.  I… I just didn’t think you’d be here when I dropped it off.”

The slightly-hesitant look on his brother’s face gave Mycroft pause and he went with his instincts and nodded Sam towards his study, considering putting away the folders on his desk, but realized that it would simply impel his brother to wrestle him to steal them away, so left them be.

      “Very well, Sherrinford.  What embarrassing and inappropriate thing have you brought into my house and how difficult will it be to bring about its demise?”

Sam pursed his lips and reached into his pocket, pulling out something that very nearly made Mycroft drop his tea.  In fact it was only that he was already on the way to setting it down that saved his precious Limoges tea cup from an eternal fate as a pile of shards.

      “It… it is Father Christmas.”

Mycroft slowly reached out, but was almost fearful of touching the small ornament, one he hadn’t seen since he was ten years old.

      “Yep.  Probably doesn’t surprise you that I stole it, but… I couldn’t leave him behind.  It was shitty and selfish of me to take it, but… here.  It’s yours now.”

Sam thrust the ornament towards Mycroft who was still looking at it like it was a burning coal and it took some nudging by Sam for Mycroft to reach out and take the decoration in hand.

      “I… I thought Mummy had it discarded.”

      “She probably would have and that’s part of the reason I took it.  Not that he was ever on the household tree for more than an hour.  I put him up that first year and it literally wasn’t one full hour before she was pulling it off because it was tacky and cheap.”

      “I have no memory of that.  I, frankly, have no memory of anything except he was always in our rooms.  I cannot remember a Christmas until you left that he was not there.”

      “I bought that for you for your very _first_ Christmas, actually.  We were in the village near the house and Mummy was doing her Lady of the Manor walk around, with me pushing you in your stroller because I’d whined until Claudette, the nanny, let me take charge.  Poor thing… she didn’t last long in the job because I could whine her into _anything_ and, more importantly, Mummy hated that Claudette was younger and prettier than she was.  Anyway, I used my whining superpowers to get us to go into one of the stores that was really dolled up for Christmas and there were ornaments for sale, along with tons of other crap, but you only had eyes for one thing.  Maybe because it was down low so you could actually see it, but you saw good  ol’ FC and made little baby grabby hands until I took him and handed him to you.  Luckily, Father had slipped me some money to buy candy and I was able to get it for you because you were _not_ letting it go.  And not pulling it apart or sticking it in your mouth and gumming it all up, either.”

Mycroft turned the ornament over and over again in his hands and fought down the emotional surge hitting him from having this piece of his childhood in his hands once again.

      “Anyway, I’d hold it up for you when you were in your crib and we’d play with him.  I thought it would be nice to put on the tree when we weren’t playing and that was a mistake.  Might as well have been a dead rat for the disgusted face Mummy pulled when she saw it.  But, that gave me the idea to just have our own Christmas in our rooms and fuck her uptight shit.  The next year, I dragged one of those butt-ugly houseplants into my room and put Father Christmas right on it, along with some of the balls I swiped off the main tree.  Every year after I added a little more, but your ornament was always right at the top of whatever I had for a tree.  Yeah, I felt like shit taking him with me, but… it was a good memory and I really needed that at the time.”

      “I… I will admit that the constancy of having a familiar element to the holidays was a comforting thing and its loss was… impactful.”

      “Well, that’s one more thing you can add to my bill.  It’s yours now, though, so… do what you want with him.”

Mycroft was finding it very hard to find words at the moment because it was so terribly difficult to choose any to adequately express what he was feeling.  That first Christmas after his brother left had been… horrid.  Sherlock was three years old and already a challenge for him to manage.  He was suffering nightmares weekly about Sherrinford’s loss and the one he anticipated for Sherlock.  Now it was the holidays and there should be festivity and ridiculousness and there was none of that.  There was none of Sherrinford’s foolish decorations and ghastly music playing on the radio.  Certainly no frivolous games, stolen biscuits and sweets.  It was quiet and somber, his heart felt daily as if it was being gripped and squeezed to pulp… and now it was on his small shoulders to try and give Sherlock some of that foolish, nonsensical wonder that _he_ had always enjoyed at Christmas.

      “I shall.  I believe… I do have certain ornaments that I have held over the years and, perhaps, it is time that they again see the light of day.”

      “Ok… like I said, it’s yours, so… yeah.  Well, that’s all I really was here for, so I’ll head on out now.”

      “Yes… I do have a number of matters that require my attention and I should make a start sooner than later.”

      “Sounds good.  See ya, Skinny.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and watched his brother start to leave with not a single obscenity in sight, taking in all the signs of his brother’s posture, which made a rather unsettling picture.

      “Sherrinford… I appreciate this greatly.  Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “I would ask, though… would you rather not keep this for your own home?”

      “Nope.”

The curtness of the answer put Mycroft on alert and he knew he had a choice.  Let the matter stand so each of them could continue on with their day or investigate further and face the possibility of wishing he had not.  Unfortunately, one did rise to where he stood in life by taking the easy path…

      “May I… I know you have had little time, perhaps, to prepare for the season in your new flat.  If you require any assistance…”

      “Thanks, Skinny, but I don’t really celebrate Christmas.  Usually, I’m working so some other guy or gal can have the day with their families.  It’s… it’s not a big holiday for me anymore.  Have fun with your folders and tell Greggie I said hi.”

This time, Mycroft allowed Sam to leave and let it sink in that whereas he had lost the joy of Christmas once in his life, his brother had lost it twice.  To build a family and see it wrest from your grasp… no, Christmas would be a meaningless time for him, as well, if that fate was ever to be his.

      “Mycroft?”

      “Gregory!  Why are you not resting?”

Mycroft quickly crossed to the door and escorted Lestrade the few steps to the sofa, much to his lover’s amusement.

      “Because I had to piss, then I thought I heard Sam.  Is he here?”

      “Was is more the case, for he departed just a moment ago.”

      “Oh.  Well, I was just going to give him a rude gesture and tell him to sod off, so not much lost there.”

That, at least, made Mycroft smile and he tutted dutifully at Lestrade’s wholly-insincere lack of manners.

      “We must maintain a civil home, my dear, regardless of the quality of the individual who might push their way through our door.”

      “Oh fine.  Be all proper and polite if you have to.  Did your favorite low-quality individual have anything useful to say or did he just stop by to steal my beer?”

      “Your alcohol remained safe from Sherrinford’s clutches, I give you my word.”

      “Thank heavens for that!  And…”

      “Yes?”

      “What aren’t you telling me?”

      “Ever the detective.”

      “Got to stay in practice.  Is this one of those things you don’t want to talk about because you’ve not really worked it out yourself or one of those things that you don’t want to worry me with?”

A fantastically arousing mind… his Gregory was truly a man of many delights…

      “A bit of both.  But, since the cat is now out of the proverbial bag…”

Mycroft filled in Lestrade on the details of Sam’s visit and the DI made certain to give his fiancé’s neck a gentle rub when Mycroft was finished to help ease the tense muscles.

      “That’s a beautiful story, really.  Not the part where Sam left, but him getting you the ornament.  It’s going to be a proud addition to our tree, which we do need to get on to if we want it ready for when the Fitton lot arrive.  But, I’m more concerned about you, love.  Are you alright with it?  You don’t… well, you don’t have to display it if it hurts too much.”

      “No, I _do_ want to.  I do not exaggerate when I say it was the fixed point of my Christmases around which everything else centered.  I really did not know how long it had been part of my history, but, perhaps, that explains the attachment.”

      “I’d say so.  Little baby Mycroft and his Christmas friend.  That had to burrow right into your brain and make itself at home.  Might you have any pictures to share?”

Cutting his eyes to his smiling fiancé, Mycroft huffed out a soft laugh and began to relax.

      “I believe I do.  If not, Sherrinford might, for he does possess a selection of photographs that he took when he left and there could easily be one of that nature in his collection.”

      “Then that’s something I definitely want to see!  I do understand about Sam and Christmas, though.  After my marriage dissolved, I didn’t have much interest in Christmas, either.  Always volunteered to work so others could have the time off and my flat didn’t look any different than it always did.  Really didn’t seem to be a point.  And it has to hurt when this time of year comes around.  You should ask him, at some point, what Christmas was like with his wife and son.  He might like talking about it if he thinks you’re interested.”

      “Do you believe that is wise?  Would it not bring to the fore unpleasant memories of their loss?”

      “Maybe, but when you lose someone, you can’t ignore the life they led, can you?  And I do think Sam would like you, especially, to know more about his life.  I’ve been meaning to ask, though, and don’t think I’m pushing you towards one decision or another, because I’m not, but… have you asked Sam to come around for Christmas?”

As that seemed to short-circuit his lover, Lestrade rubbed Mycroft’s knee and tried a smile that he normally used when talking to older witnesses who tended to get a bit confused and had to be gently encouraged to tell their story.

      “I… oh dear.”

      “It’s ok, love.  Like I said, it’s your decision whether you want him with us or not and you know he understands that, especially with your history together.”

      “No, that is not the issue.  I fully intended to have Sherrinford participate in our celebration, I simply…”

      “Forgot?”

      “Not quite.  More… expected.  In truth, I did not consider a formal invitation to be necessary, but now that you raise the issue, I have heard from both Sherlock and John about what they will, in John’s case, and will not, in Sherlock case, do to help bring about our festivities, but from Sherrinford I have heard nothing.  He is waiting for me, is he not?”

      “Probably.  You told me he was adamant he wouldn’t assume anything and I suspect he’s going to hold to that because he’s scared of wrecking the truce you two have settled on.”

      “I believe you are correct.  I will rectify that immediately.”

      “Can I say I think it’s a good thing, really?  That you just expected him to come, that is.”

      “Do you?”

      “Yeah, I do.  Means you’re thinking of the mangy old thing as family and that’s not something I was certain you’d ever be able to do after you found out who Sam was.”

      “Hmm… In truth, I have not consciously thought of it that way, but, given consideration, I can see the merit of your argument.”

      “I promise I won’t tell Sam.”

      “Thank you, my dear, for he would be positively insufferable if he believed he had achieved some form of status beyond that of harbinger of pestilence.”

      “Can’t have that.  Might ruin Christmas.”

      “And every day for eternity afterwards.”

__________

John knocked a polite knock once, then barged into Sam’s flat, since the door was actually already open and he just hoped he wasn’t walking into the aftermath of a burglary-murder.

      “Johnny!  What brings you out to my crappy abode in this stupid London weather?”

Unless Sam was putting his mobile back into his pocket after reporting his burglary and murder to the police, things must actually be alright.

      “Taking an errand break.  Sherlock needs the ingredients to a poultice recipe he found in some old apothecary’s diary he picked up at a second-hand store and I said I’d go looking since the flat currently smells like nuclear waste and he’s inoculated all the jam with fecal coliform bacteria to see how it fares in a high-sugar environment.”

      “Typical day, then.”

      “Pretty much.  Your flat is actually quite strategically placed for the necessary mid-investigation cup of tea, so get going.”

      “If you want coffee, I’m your man.  If you want tea, you can fuck yourself with my big toe.”

      “Have you trimmed your toenails?”

      “Of course I did.  Figured you stop by sooner or later.”

      “Alright then, that’s a plan for the evening.  And you do have tea.  Voila!”

John drew a box of tea out of his pocket and grinned as Sam reacted much as a vampire would to a holy water soaked clove of garlic.

      “I hate you, pipsqueak.”

      “Then your great toe will remain unmolested.  Go make your coffee and I’ll demonstrate what it means to be civilized.”

Sam made a gesture John had to admire for medical accuracy and nodded John to follow him into the kitchen.

      “I meant to ask, why’s your door open?  I was counting on a nice murder that would take Sherlock’s mind off of his new experiments, but woe is me.”

      “The woman across the hall, who is about a hundred and forty, asked if I would listen that she didn’t fall off the ladder while she dusted her shelves.  Who the fuck dusts shelves?”

      “And, you couldn’t do it for her?”

      “Don’t think I didn’t ask.  Chivalry is my middle name, as you well know.”

      “What happened?”

      “She hit me with her slipper and said she was perfectly capable of doing it herself.  So long as I got the ladder for her, set it up, watched her get up there and then leave so I wasn’t tempted to look up her skirt while she worked.”

      “So, she knows you pretty well by now.”

      “I’d say so.”

John grinned and got one of Sam’s kettles going, actually enjoying the ability to stop in and visit a friend on the spur of the moment.  His other mates weren’t so conveniently positioned and some days you just wanted to chat with someone who operated somewhat on your wavelength.  The fact that person might be Sam would go unexplored for the sake of his sanity and self-respect.

      “And might I congratulate you on the complete lack of Christmas spirit in your enormous, ugly flat?”

      “Thank you, John.  I tried my best.  Added a few extra shadows to the corners and gave it a few squirts of Eau de Ebenezer this morning, in fact.  Is yours the normal Christmas palace that makes me want to vomit?”

      “At its finest.  I’m rather proud, actually, because, Greg bet me Mycroft would have his palace erected long before we did and now the bastard owes me a fiver.”

      “Yeah, Mycie’s been waiting for word from Arthur.  The question was a small, tasteful presentation for him and the invalid or Disney’s Christmas Pageant if the Fittonites showed up.  A little bird tells me the invasion is a go, so expect full mobilization of tinsel to begin shortly.”

      “As long as there’s drinks aplenty for our holiday visit, then we can celebrate in a dustbin, for all I care.”

John pursed his lips and looked at the oldest Holmes brother over the rim of his cup.

      “Why are you making a duck face?”

      “Because you’ll get tired of looking at it and tell me what I want to know.”

      “Which would be?”

      “Are you going to be celebrating with us or is a pint with me at your new local going to be the extent of your nod to Christmas?”

      “You are one nosy fucker, you know that, John?”

      “It’s a gift.  So?”

Sam smiled and took a long slug of his coffee, grimacing happily at how his tongue melted in contact with his brew.

      “Actually, the Grinch just called and asked if I’d like to join the rest of Whoville around the big ol’ tree.”

John kept his face as ‘ok, well that’s good’ neutral as possible, but, internally, sighed heavily in relief.  Sam would never say anything, but the fact Mycroft hadn’t asked him to come for Christmas was weighing heavily on his friend and it hurt to see the man in real pain.  And, though this would make its way to nobody’s ears, Sherlock had actually asked, in the most offhand way possible, if his third brother would be gracing their holiday, or _disgracing_ to pay respects to his husband’s genuine words, and actually let a flash of concern show when he’d learned it wasn’t looking good for it to happen.

      “Tell me you didn’t say yes.”

      “Sorry, John, but I have great plans to ruin everyone’s Christmas in the most embarrassing and memory-searing ways possible.”

      “Delightful.  Just so you know, I’m not getting you a present.”

      “Just so you know, I’m making yours.  And I’m eating a lot of fiber, so it’ll be a big one.”

John returned Sam’s previous rude gesture and the two men settled in for a nice, long visit.  It was good to have friends that understood you.  And tolerated you, to boot…

__________

Mycroft bid his guests goodbye and, once the door was closed, mentally giggled like a child.  And that giggling kept on as he strolled back to the sitting room where Lestrade was waiting, a large, knowing grin on his face.

      “That went well.”

      “I would agree.  I had hoped to have you meet the few people I claim as… if not friends, then happy acquaintances… and this was a perfect time to see that done.”

Not that Lestrade had let his partner know how worried he’d been about the small cocktail evening Mycroft had proposed, of course.  Meeting Mycroft’s mates for the first time when he still had to think about what chair he sat in and how long he stood up wasn’t ideal, but get-togethers were normal for the Christmas season, so he’d said it would be a fantastic idea.  Of course, for Mycroft, such a thing was anything _but_ normal, but he’d been so anxious to show off his partner that he simply could not shake the idea from his mind.

      “Well, I’m glad you had this idea because it was fun, actually.  I like meeting new people and I wasn’t a bad co-host, if I do say so myself.”

      “You were positively scintillating and I am keenly aware of the responses of my guests which clearly indicated their approval of both you and your hostly talents.”

Lestrade patted the sofa and Mycroft quickly accepted the invitation.

      “We had a party, love.”

Mycroft leaned in and kissed his partner, then bopped him on the nose with an outstretched finger.

      “That we did.  Our very first, family notwithstanding.  And we have another on our record this week.”

      “Lock up everything you want to keep.”

      “Gregory… your colleagues are the least likely to perpetrate a robbery while in our home.”

      “I wouldn’t actually go that far, but I’m more concerned about breakage when they get a gut full of good alcohol.  Make sure we’ve got lots of nibbles to soak up some of that so there’s nobody dancing naked on your lovely sofa table.”

      “I shall inform the caterer to provide hearty fare.”

      “Very smart.  It feels good, though, you know?  Me and you having people in for a drink and some conversation.  Nothing I’d want every day, but on the odd occasion… it’s a nice thing.”

      “I heartily concur.  And do not hesitate to open our doors if I am not at home for any entertaining you would like to do.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.  I’m certain there will be nights there’s a good match on and you’re not going to be coming home until morning.  Ring up John and the lads at work and make an evening of it.”

      “An excellent idea.  But, that does remind me that we should make a start on your home office.  I would hate to see you beginning again your job and not have a place to continue with your work, if that is required, when you return home.”

      “That’s a kind thought, love, but we have lots of time before we have to worry about that.”

      “I disagree.  Already you are so greatly improved from when we began this journey and I _have_ spoken with John and Sherrinford about your progress.  They are much encouraged and most impressed by your dedication to your physical therapy.  I feel it shall not be as long as you expect before you might return to some form of duty.”

      “What do you mean by ‘some form?’ “

      “You are gauging your progress by the point at which you return fully to investigatory work, however, there is nothing to say you could not return earlier with a more administrative role until you were fully restored to health.”

      “Oh.  Ok… I hadn’t really thought about that.”

      “Because, I suspect, you are fearful of that being the endpoint of your recovery. “

      “I admit that I don’t want that to be the rest of my career.  I know there’s still important work to be done behind a desk, but it’s not why I became a policeman.”

      “I know, my dear, and I only make the suggestion as a temporary thing to ease you back into working a full day with somewhat the level of demand that you will take on when you are cleared for more physical tasks.”

      “That’s not a bad idea, actually.  Get my fingers back into things before I’m in with my team in the field.  I am marrying a very smart man.”

      “Something else to which we must give thought.”

      “It’s never far from my mind, truth be told.  What with the one ‘wedding to end all weddings’ and one ‘just barely meets the requirements for a wedding’ wedding, it’s been hard to see when and how ours is going to fit in.  Then, with me still being old and broken down, not that the old part is going to change except for getting older… I didn’t mind being in a wheelchair for Martin and Arthur’s, but that’s not what I want for my own.  I want to do the whole proceedings on my feet, except the wedding night, naturally, and I don’t know when that’s going to happen.”

      “When it is right and proper that it does.  Do not believe, not for an instant, Gregory, that I am hoping to see us wed before you are ready to do so.  I am quite content with what we have now and do not anticipate the legalization of our union deepening the adoration I have for you.  Perhaps… perhaps the area on which to focus is not the wedding, but the announcement that one shall, in fact, occur.”

      “We haven’t actually done that, have we?”

      “We have not and I see no obstacle to our remedying that situation at our earliest opportunity.”

      “We _will_ have the whole family here for Christmas, so we could use that as our earliest opportunity.”

      “It would certainly not be inappropriate.  Already there shall be access to celebratory consumables and Sherlock’s traditional Christmas pouting will serve dual purpose, which is an efficiency I find quite to my liking.”

      “Then we have an actual plan!  One honest party and one actual plan… this is a staggeringly successful evening.  I’m so proud of us, I could just…”

Lestrade whispered into Mycroft’s ear, feeling the heat of partner’s skin climb a notch at his suggestion and loving every second of it.

      “Gregory… you are a most wicked man.”

      “And you like it.”

      “I do, at that.

      “Want to get started on our little reward?”

      “I can think of nothing better.”

      “And, Mycroft… you know, you don’t have to hold back giving me a little nip if the mood strikes.  I haven’t had any lovely marks on my body for a very long time and maybe it’s time for some decoration besides these pesky scars.”

If his lover trembled any more strongly, Lestrade was certain he’d feel his hair ruffled by the breeze.

      “Your wish is, as always, my command, Gregory.”

      “First one to the bedroom has to do everything the other one says for the whole night.”

Lestrade laughed as Mycroft set about cleaning up from their small party at a pace that could be beat by an arthritic tortoise, which was good because that was about how fast he could make it up the stairs and get into bed.  Naked.  On top of the blankets.  Maybe posed a little so he looked his sexy best.  Nothing was too good for his fiancé.  He just needed a little extra time to get the goods out there to be enjoyed…

__________

      “Skip!”

Martin patted Arthur’s leg and didn’t answer because this was Arthur’s version of excited-chick peeping and he’d been doing it every time they saw something he remembered fondly as they made towards Mycroft’s house.

      “Arthur, might you be in need of some form of refreshment?  I hear there are exceptional strychnine stands sprouting up all over the city that would simply be thrilled to hand you a cool, refreshing sample of their fine product.”

      “I’m alright for now, Douglas, but thanks!  Skip!”

Douglas sighed and, not for the first time, reconsidered his choice of riding in the car with the lovebirds, younger variety, than the car with the lovebirds, older variety.  The pensioners were likely napping, or, rather, Herc was napping while Carolyn lectured him on why, despite appearances, she had no use for his company and please check that Snoopadoop was still breathing because she hadn’t made a peep in ten minutes.  Unlike Arthur.

      “Is there, by the slimmest possible chance, I admit, some form of schedule for the next few days?  I would prefer to hear now about any biscuit-baking contests or jumper-shopping expeditions so that I might deftly sidestep them and amuse myself in a slightly less frolicky fashion.”

Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of notepaper with Arthur’s hoped-for agenda outlined across the face of the happy kittens doing their best to enliven each page of Arthur’s ‘not my case note or recipe notebook’.

      “Oh good lord… they don’t plan the Olympics with this much detail!”

      “Isn’t it brilliant!  I thought about things to do every day!  And every part of every day.  There won’t be a moment there won’t be something brilliant to do and we get to do it all together!”

Cementing Douglas’s resolve to make camp in a more sterile and dour area known as L’Hotel de Samuel.

      “Something I’m certain your husband and the other unfortunates shall be simply delighted to experience.  Take Dupin, for instance.  I see… oh, a heavenly host of ideas that would likely inspire in him the most ardent Christmas spirit.”

      “I did think about that, actually.  Things that specific people would like so everyone would have the best possible time.”

      “Very forward-thinking of you.  You do realize, however, that we are not here for a six-month holiday, so there is a rather high probability that your list will not be enjoyed in its entirety?”

      “Well, yeah… but what we don’t do this Christmas, we can do next Christmas.  Either Summer or Winter.  That’s the nice thing about lists, they stay listy for a very long time.”

Oh joy, a long-lasting listy list… perhaps Samuel would be amenable to a nice summer holiday somewhere with beaches and bikinis galore, but without a single list in sight beyond the starters list of the restaurant of their waterfront hotel.

      “Yes, they’re certainly useful things.  Martin, why don’t you help your husband make a list about the wonderful, useful things about lists?”

Arthur’s excited gasp turned to giggles as Martin shuffled out of his jacket and petulantly draped it over his head while he leaned against the window of the car away from Arthur, Douglas and anything to do with lists.

      “I think Skip is a bit tired, actually.  He didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, what with having to take care of _Mum’s_ list, then helping me triple check the packing.”

Douglas grinned and reveled in the small bit of revenge-by-proxy for some of the, admittedly rare, victories Martin had won against him.  Carolyn had decided a son-in-law, regardless that he was married to her actual son, had to perform, all of the traditional son-in-duties, which included home maintenance, lawn work and errands involving anything approaching bother or mess.  Martin now had to heed the Alpha Dog at work and at home and nothing could make the First Officer any happier…

      “And I told Mycroft that if he had anything he needed something done to help with Christmas, Skip was the perfect person since he’s been doing lots of little Christmasy things the past few weeks, so he’s somewhat of an expert on the subject.”

No… no, he was wrong.  This was making him happier… Martin’s pained groan was just the cherry on top…

__________

Arthur’s knock on the door nearly shook the house off of its foundation and threatened several more on the street along with it.  His astonished gasp when it opened further compromised London’s residential architecture.

      “Mr. Sherlock!  You came to meet us!”

      “I am in Mycroft’s ostentatious house because John refuses to come with me to the morgue unless we visit with Lestrade first.  He has become exceedingly demanding since our wedding and I am already considering divorce.”

Arthur laughed and ran forward to give Sherlock a bone-crushing hug.

      “No you’re not.  I’d know if you were because you would have called me first to talk about it because you know I’ve had a course in understanding people so I could tell you if you were being silly or not.”

      “That is a particularly incorrect assessment of the situation, however, I will let it stand unaddressed in the spirit of Christmas camaraderie.”

      “Come again?”

      “Never mind.  Martin, your appearance is appalling.”

      “Thank you, Sherlock.  When you actually work for a living I’ll return the compliment.”

      “Sir is a bit snappy, Mr. Detective, so you might wish to keep all fingers you actually hope to keep away from his mouth.”

      “Why would I put my fingers near Martin’s mouth?”

Douglas sighed and marveled at how he ever thought Sherlock and Arthur were worlds different and would mix like oil and water.

      “Mining for silver?”

      “Martin’s mouth is sadly lacking in amalgam fillings to make that a profitable pursuit.”

      “Did you hear that, Captain Crieff?  Your teeth are safe for now.”

      “Piss off, Douglas!”

      “Skip!  That is decidedly un-Christmasy.”

      “I’m sorry, Arthur.  And, to show you how sorry I am, I’m going to embark immediately on a mission to bolster my Christmas spirit.  With spirits.  If you need me, follow the smell of alcohol.”

Martin stalked off towards Mycroft’s study where the best selection of potables was kept and Arthur wavered between clapping and wagging his finger, because he wasn’t actually convinced of his husband’s sudden dedication to holiday happiness.

      “Ignore Martin, Arthur.  Instead, why don’t you ask your investigatory partner to help you carry in the bags while I pay my respects to the current lord of the manor?  Or is it lords?  It seems neither of the Holmes brothers has a particularly steady means of employment.”

      “Piss off, Douglas!”

      “Mr. Sherlock!  That is, also, decidedly un-Christmasy.  And very eerily like Skip, which is a bit confusing since you look like him, too.”

Sherlock grabbed Arthur’s hand and dragged him off towards the car, because directing the steward for the unloading of baggage was undoubtedly a less infuriating fate than being in the same room with Douglas Richardson.  Since fire was best fought with fire, he sent a quick text to the truly most infuriating person in London notifying him of the arrival of the caravan from Fitton.  Though the caravan seemed quite small compared to what he had been expecting.

      “Arthur, where is your mother?”

      “Oh!  We left them at their hotel.  Mum said that she needed a massage and some champagne to recover from the trip.  I’m not exactly sure why, since we take loads of trips and she never gets a massage or has champagne after any of those, but it’s Christmas, so maybe that’s what’s making the difference.”

Sherlock was actually _very_ sure about what was making the difference and hoped that Mrs. Knapp-Shappey ordered the most expensive champagne the hotel had on offer.  In fact, he might phone and have caviar delivered to her room, too, on the room’s bill, of course.  Mycroft would be delighted to treat Arthur’s mother to everything she desired.  It _was_ Christmas, after all.

      “I cannot fault her for that. _I_ would not be here if it was not for John.”

      “Oh, Mr. Sherlock… you probably wanted to check on Greg, too, and see he was ready for Christmas.”

      “Lestrade is obnoxiously prepared for Christmas.  He has already been attempting to sing carols and has threatened to don a garish Father Christmas outfit to usher in Christmas morning.”

      “BRILLIANT!”

      “No.”

      “No?”

      “No.”

      “Oh.  Not even for a very little while?”

      “No.”

      “That’s not very…”

      “Arthur, the standard of Christmas cheer that you maintain is not the standard maintained by the majority of those claiming to celebrate the holiday.”

      “It isn’t?”

      “No, and if you apply your observational skills to your memory of personal events with Christmases past, you shall likely see I am correct.”

Sherlock waited while Arthur perused his mental filing cards, taking time to clean the remnants of mostly non-toxic mold from beneath his fingernails.

      “I think I see your point.”

      “Excellent.  Now that we have that settled, let us substitute you for John at Lestrade’s bedside or chairside or wherever he is languishing, so my day can continue on as planned.”

Sherlock pointed at the house and Arthur grudgingly ported the luggage back inside, dropping it all in the entranceway to give his body use of his arms for his flailing shout.

      “BRILLIANT!”

      “What now?”

      “Mycroft’s house, Mr. Sherlock!  It’s beautiful!”

      “It is exactly the same in appearance as it was when you were here five minutes ago.”

      “True, but I didn’t notice it then, because I was noticing you instead.”

That, at least, Sherlock had to admit was a highly valid reason for missing Mycroft’s holiday foolishness.  The house appeared as if his brother was hoping to win some form of magazine contest for most garish Christmas presentation.

      “It is the most ghastly thing I have ever witnessed.”

      “You see, I have to disagree with that, because it’s the most beautiful thing _I’ve_ ever seen and, as we have already established, I have more experience with things  Christmasy than the average person.”

      “I agree, Arthur.  It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, too.”

      “GREG!”

Arthur darted towards the new arrival and nearly fell over stopping short to give a much gentler hug than he had been planning.

      “You’re standing up!”

      “Amazing, isn’t it!  And I can almost do it like a champion at this point.  Getting a glass from the cupboards, having a look in the mirror to give my hair a bit of a comb… quite a change from when you were last here, isn’t it?”

Arthur’s happy dance was enough to have Lestrade very carefully add a few steps of his own, which gave the steward an excited case of the giggles that drew Martin out of his makeshift speakeasy, complete with soothing beverage in his hand.

      “Arthur, you didn’t fill your mouth with bubble solution again, did you?”

      “No!  That was funny, though.  It didn’t taste very good, but every time I laughed I made bubbles and what’s better than bubbles?  Not a lot, I can tell you that much.”

Lestrade shook his head and thanked his lucky stars that he’d not kicked Sherlock and Arthur off of his crime scene that first night he met the man now giving Martin a peck on the cheek and frowning at the smell of what must be Mycroft’s scotch.  Yes, a lot of vile and evil things came of that night, but so did a lot of good and the good had unquestionably taken the lead to outweigh the bad… besides, he now had another gift idea for Arthur and the more presents under the tree, the happier his fiancé would be.

      “Bubbles, you say?  Well, some of the Christmas balls around here look a lot like bubbles, so I have to say you’re right.  Mycroft really did himself proud seeing the house decorated, didn’t he?”

      “It’s amazing!  The house looks like one of those lovely shops that puts up its decorations and you see them and need a moment to catch your breath because it’s flown right out of you!”

Something over which Martin and Sherlock shared a nod of agreement, though not over the term ‘lovely.’  Mycroft had certainly had _someone_ in mind when he had the decorations erected and it was exactly the person who would have their breath taken away by a Christmas card come to life.

      “Oh fuck me it’s like one big disco ball in here!”

All heads turned towards the door to watch Sam fumble for his sunglasses which he quickly donned before looking again at the lights and decorations in Mycroft’s entranceway.

      “How are you here already, Sherrinford?  I only texted you a few moments ago.  Have you moved residence to Mycroft’s rubbish bins?”

Mycroft flipped Sherlock off in grand fashion, more on principle than for Sherlock’s words, which were perfectly baby-brotherish and actually pleased the oldest Holmes to no end.

      “Dougie did it as soon as they got in the cars, though I wish he’d warned me Skinny went all Mrs. Claus and shit.”

      “Doctor Sam!  Isn’t this brilliant!  Oh!  I’ve got to get some photos…”

As Arthur dug for his mobile, everyone else started edging toward anywhere but in sight of Arthur’s lens, but were a second too slow, many seconds too slow in Lestrade’s case, and had to spend the next decade posing, something that quickly included John and Douglas who had finally braved peeking out of their hiding place when they mistakenly thought the revelry had died to a more manageable level.

      “Yes!  I think I’ve got what I need.  Skip, remind me to buy a new album just for my Christmas snaps.  I want to print the very best and put them in a lovely book because that always seems more special than looking at them on my phone, though that’s brilliant enough on its own.”

      “Captain Crieff will gladly escort you to find the handsomest photo album London has to offer, I have no doubt.  Or, you might ask Sherry to be your assistant.  Something productive might be just the thing to take the edge off of his obvious hangover.”

Sam’s ‘miserable second-seat fucktard’ earned the expected shocked gasp from Arthur and satisfied chuckle from its intended victim.

      “Look, Smuglas, the hospital Christmas party was last night and I decided to pay my respects.”

      “Many liters of respects, if your smell is any indication.”

      “Says the man wearing so much polyester right now that a match and my breath will create the world’s ugliest bonfire.”

      “Natural fabrics alone grace this fine form, old chap, but it was a good try.  Arthur, would you care to provide your cousin-by-unfortunate-marriage a cup of coffee to cut through his alcoholic haze so he might enjoy, and remember, his lovely visit with you?”

      “Yes!  One coffee coming right up!  Skip, help Doctor Sam to a seat and walk very softly so you footsteps don’t make his head hurt.”

Which, of course, was the signal for a rather robust amount of foot stomping as the party moved towards the sitting room, with John sparing a quick glance at Lestrade and receiving the hoped-for rude gesture in return.  Lack thereof would have signaled a tired or pain-distracted patient, by carefully hammered-out agreement.  Greg was doing well, extremely well, but that didn’t mean his doctor, and friend, had stopped worrying about him.

      “I hope you assholes all catch cholera.  One diarrhea-filled Christmas is what you deserve.”

      “It is not our fault, Sherrinford, that your excesses have, again, brought you to a sad and sorry state.  One, about which, I will duly and happily, inform Mycroft.”

      “Pissy little tattletale!  John, get Sherlock’s diaper off so I can paddle that bony bottom of his.”

      “If this is what I’m going to have to endure, consider this my last family Christmas.  Arthur can come if he likes and I can enjoy some peace and quiet.”

      “If I have to suffer Christmas, Martin, you do as well.  John, tell Martin he cannot avoid his due share of holiday agony.”

      “Alright, Martin you have to suffer exactly as much Christmas agony as Sherlock.”

      “And, apparently, _I_ have to suffer a multiple does as I must contend with both toddlers in complete violation of the natural law that I not be graced with any significant quantity of situations that I do not specifically enjoy.”

      “John!  Douglas Richardson is more agony that I agreed to endure for this tinsel-strangled facsimile of Saturnalia!”

As the arguing moved into second gear, Lestrade took out his mobile and sent his fiancé a quick text that all was well and completely on schedule.  In a few hours, Mycroft would be home and the celebrating could begin in earnest.  Tomorrow night was Christmas Eve and, barring an international incident of the nuclear variety, he and his lover would welcome the whole family and make the announcement that they’d held secret for far long enough.

      “Stop shouting, Babylock, or I’ll fucking show you what strangling with tinsel really means!”

If the whole family made it to Christmas Eve, that is…


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As anyone following this story knows, there's been a fairly significant hiatus in getting it finished. The reasons have been legion and to do the job I'll post 'the ending' in a series of smaller chapters, rather than one large one, because that is simply more manageable right now and will help me focus. So, if you heard angels singing today, you now know the reason why, because this is finally back on track...

Mycroft was certain he could see his home vibrating with holiday cheer as the car approached and, finally, dropped him in front of the door.  It had taken his most forceful application of will not to let a smile break out when he received his lover’s text, as it may have given a certain ambassador the impression that the ludicrous proposal he was offering had any political merit whatsoever, but the smile had stretched wide in his mind and, now, he could let it out into the open.  Christmas was well and truly underway…

      “Mycroft!”

Arthur waving a large red and green swirled lolly was directly in line with what Mycroft had expected for a greeting.

      “Hello, dear boy.  I see the celebration has begun in earnest.”

      “Only the pre-Christmas Eve bit.  But, we certainly are having fun.  Except, perhaps, for Mr. Sherlock who says he’s gotten a case of something called dystopia, but neither Doctor Watson or Doctor Sam seem to mind, so it can’t be terribly serious.”

Sherlock’s _Pieta_ pose on the sofa bolstered Arthur’s claims, but Mycroft had years of experience ignoring his younger brother’s dramatics.

      “Excellent.  And you, my dear?  Are you alight with the joy of celebration?”

Not that Lestrade had much time to answer because Mycroft had lost the ability to enter his home without immediately seeking out his fiancé for a kiss and tonight was no exception.

      “I am positively _blazing_.  We’ve raided the cupboards and the liquor supplies, started the music going and were, actually, debating on what item on Arthur’s list of activities to leap into before the food and drink got the better of us.”

      “Ah, hence Sherlock’s incipient demise.  He is extremely allergic to any form of jubilation.”

Though his dear Detective Inspector was not.  Gregory’s smile outshone the holiday lights by a large margin and it was taking another forceful application of will not to give his lover a second kiss, this one not for tender and innocent eyes.

      “You mean he’s hoping to make enough of a fuss that we’ll all suggest he goes home and he gets what he wants without having to take any blame for it.”

      “Your talent for assessing Sherlock’s motives has grown by leaps and bounds, Martin.  I offer my congratulations.”

Martin’s gratitude for Mycroft’s kind words was expressed with some degree of spittle, which earned him a flick on his ear from Sam, who was the recipient of some of said spittle on his shirtsleeve.

      “Keep your fluids to yourself, tomato head.”

      “Skip does have rather a tomato-y head, doesn’t he?  His hair is a lovely red and when he’s flustered his face is quite red, too.  If his cheeks were a tad chubbier, it would make a perfect tomato!”

      “And since we do recognize the importance to Sir of perfection.  Arthur, I believe your next order of domestic business is to increase the degree of chub in our supreme commander’s face so he achieves his most preferred state.”

      “Brilliant!  Thanks, Douglas!  Here, Skip.  Eat.”

Arthur grabbed a large handful of the appetizers Mycroft had ordered in for the impromptu heat-and-eat festivities and dropped them on a plate to set in Martin’s lap.

      “Thank you, Arthur, but Douglas is, as always, engaging in his favorite pastime, which is demonstrating his rather appalling lack of humor.”

      “A quality he shares with Sherrinford, which is why they have melded into some form of primordial ooze of aged protoplasm.”

      “Smallcock!  You’re alive!  Thought you’d died hours ago.  You smell like you did.  What’d you do – shower with one of those dead bodies you’re in love with?”

As Sherlock launched into his point-by-point rebuttal, Mycroft poured himself a glass of the wine that was on offer and settled on the ottoman he’d pushed into position next to Lestrade’s chair.

      “You have not been overstressed by the… Christmas cheer, have you, Gregory?”

Lestrade smiled his most ingratiating smile and held up his wine glass.

      “I am well-provided with liquid calm, so I’m feeling incredibly fine, thank you very much”

      “And how much calm have you acquired, you unrepentant hedonist?”

      “Ummmmm… more than a little, but not nearly too much.  Both Sam and John are eyeing me and doing awful things like making ‘stop pouring’ signs when I try and fill my glass up properly.  They’re evil.  Father Christmas is only going to use their stockings for coal.  Or maybe a toilet.  He must have to go sometime while he’s delivering presents.  Nobody’s colon is that formidable.”

His Gregory was content, slightly tipsy and all was right in the world of Mycroft Holmes.  And his brother was being chastised, which was always a pleasure to watch.

      “Mr. Sherlock, I really don’t think Douglas has an ego the size of the Serengeti, because we’ve flown over that and it’s BIG!”

Arthur’s outflung arms forgot that the attached hands carried food in one and a very festively-colored juice in the other, the latter of which merrily flew across the room and collided most accurately with the center of Lestrade’s chest.

      “Yes!  Now the fun is really beginning.  It’s not a party until someone takes a swing or is wearing a drink!”

      “GREG!  I’m so sorry!  Oh, here…”

Arthur leapt up and began rubbing the juice around Lestrade’s shirt, which the DI found just as funny as the first strike.

      “Perhaps, Arthur, we might simply obtain for Gregory a fresh shirt and let this one be the challenge of the laundry service.”

      “YES!  A new shirt.  You can have one of mine if you’d like, though it might not fit you as nicely as this one, but I have some very comfortable and colorful ones that are perfect for Christmas.  Skip!  Find my dancing reindeer shirt for Greg!”

Martin was afraid of even touching that particular shirt, since Arthur’s vision of happy dancing reindeer was _his_ vision of creepily contorting, grimacing reindeer and it was certainly not in line with the traditional spirit of the season.  Unless one had a very distressing traditions that he wanted to know nothing about. Ever.

      “No.”

      “Skip!”

      “I shall obtain for Gregory a shirt, Arthur.”

      “Mycroft, I can change my own shirt.  You stay here and be the host and I’ll find something obscene and horrid to wear so Sherlock has palpitations.”

      “I do not palpitate!”

      “Not at all lad, that’s why I’m proud of you.”

      “I’ll help you, Greg.  You can hold my arm on the stairs.”

Lestrade was about to protest, but the clearly upset look on Arthur’s face changed his mind.

      “That sounds good.  We’ll only be a moment, so don’t drink all the alcohol or it’s the cells for the lot of you.”

      “I am not spending another second in the torture chambers this city terms holding cells!”

      “Not at all lad, that’s why I’m proud of you.”

      “That made no sense.”

      “It’s philosophy, Sherlock.  It’s not supposed to.”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief and Lestrade made certain to ruffle his curls as he and Arthur made their slow way out of the sitting room.

      “I really am sorry, Greg.  I got a bit… excited.”

      “No worries, Arthur.  Like I said, all good parties have some degree of excitement.  And the witches Mycroft sends the laundry to are amazing.  They’ve gotten out every stain I’ve made on every fabric and I’ve done a lot of staining since I’ve been here.”

      “Brilliant!  I wonder if they have recipes or something for cleaning that they could share.  I do rather make a lot of stains myself and I’m not nearly as good as getting rid of them.  Skip gets very nervous when I go near his captain’s shirts because, one time, I had a small accident with a very lovely raspberry jam and a bit of ink and that shirt had to be given a proper burial.  Skip cried a little, I think.”

      “Certainly proper for a funeral.  And I can do this alone, you know, if you want to go back and join the party.”

      “No, I’d rather help since it was my fault.  Besides, I’m certain you want the most festive shirt possible and I’m particularly qualified to choose it.”

      “That you are.  Alright, well, here we are.”

Going up the stairs had gotten easier and Lestrade could do it in less than a fortnight, but it still prompted a bit of deep breathing when he finished though and it was good Arthur was already darting towards the closet and didn’t notice.

      “Oh!  Look at all the suits!  This must be Mycroft’s closet.  Room.  Mycroft’s clothes room.  It’s really… shoes!  All lined up like soliders!”

Mycroft’s dressing room was certainly something to behold and it had taken a LOT of negotiation before Lestrade agreed to share it in any manner whatsoever.  As it stood, only his few pieces of ‘good’ clothes lived in the vault and the rest of his garments were more properly stored in the smaller closet on the opposite wall.  Watching Mycroft get dressed, in a special room, in full view of the bed, was a fantastic way to start the day…

      “There’s those detective skills at work.  And he does have nice shoes, doesn’t he?  Try the other side of the room, Arthur.”

A second darting brought the steward to his promised land, which was far more closet-y than the first option.

      “Brilliant!  This closet is nice, too.  It’s big and deep and you’ve even got room for more clothes!”

      “That I do.  Not that I ever own much on that score, but with Mycroft in my life, I might be seeing a few new experiences that could require something other than my standard clothes.  Find something that works for you?”

      “Hmmmmm…. Yes!  This one!”

Lestrade was not at all surprised that Arthur found the bright red long-sleeved number he’d actually forgotten he owned until he was actually able to wear normal, non-easy-access wear again and went looking through his wardrobe for what he could wear now that he was… better.

      “Perfect choice.  Very festive and when I start to glow after a few more drinks, I’ll match the color nicely.”

      “Which will be even more festive!  Here, I’ll help you with the juicy one.”

Waving off Arthur’s enthusiasm produced the anticipated lack of result and Lestrade smothered a smile as the steward gently extracted the stained shirt off of body.

      “Greg…”

      “Arthur…”

      “You don’t… well, I was going to say you don’t have any holes anymore, but that’s not actually true because you said ‘Arthur’ and that implies at least one is still there, but…”

Fingers carefully reached out and touched the nicely-healing bullet and surgical wounds and, this time, Lestrade’s smile escaped out into the open.

      “Not bad, right?  I’ll admit I never thought I’d look at this butchery and be happy with what I saw, but… this is far and away better than what I saw during those first days in hospital.  Either time.”

      “It is!  I mean, you can still see everything but… it’s not so scary.”

      “I agree.  I’m certain anyone seeing me without my shirt, who didn’t know the story, would have a different opinion, but we know the truth and that’s all that really matters.”

      “I suspect you’ll have a lot of people asking questions when you go to the beach, though.”

      “You’re probably right, but that’s not something I do with any frequency, so I suspect it won’t be too much of a bother.  Besides, I doubt Mycroft is going to let me put myself on display very often.  He gets a bit touchy about things like that.”

Something Mycroft’s reflection in the mirror agreed with heartily.  If it was anyone but Arthur running hands over his fiancé’s chest and back, that person would suddenly lack the appendages to accomplish the task, but… healing had far more than a simple physical component and those had to be tended to, as well.

      “As long as we are properly remunerated for any photographs or video recordings, then I am most content for you to model your exquisite form for the general public.”

      “Mycroft!  Greg’s lost his holes!”

      “That he has.  According to John and Sherrinford, he is healing most admirably.  There are still a number of internal issues to sort themselves out, but with his therapy and an abundance of rest, we are slowly regaining our familiar Gregory.”

Arthur gave Lestrade a stronger hug than he had to this point after the original night that changed their lives and beamed brightly.

      “Hurray!  This is really the best Christmas ever!”

The jig that Arthur began made both older men laugh and Mycroft stepped further into the bedroom to finish getting Lestrade into his new shirt.

      “You won’t get any argument from us, lad.  Now, it looks like I’ve got myself dressed, so why don’t you run down and see if anyone’s stolen my drink while you get another for yourself.”

      “Yes!  I do need more juice.  And Doctor Sam has been watching you glass fairly closely, so it is entirely possible some thievery has occurred.”

Arthur dashed out of the bedroom and Lestrade laughed again, leaning back into Mycroft’s waiting arms.

      “I think Arthur feared I was going to go through life with open wounds.”

      “Not an unreasonable fear given the circumstances.  I believe, however, you have successfully laid it to rest.”

      “With my rugged handsomeness.  And don’t think I don’t know you were jealous for a moment.”

      “Ridiculous.”

      “You’re so cute when you lie.  But, I do have to admit it’s easier now to look at the aftermath of this whole business now.  Some of the scars are scarcely noticeable.  Of course, others stand out like a mountain range in a sheep field, but… it’s an improvement!”

      “You will always wear a testimonial to your experience, my dear, and I am wholeheartedly glad for it. Such a monstrous thing… it is fitting you have a trophy to look upon and from which to take pride in your courage and fortitude.”

      “You think it’s sexy, too, which is its own benefit.”

Mycroft’s fingers traced the very familiar patterns on Lestrade’s skin over the fabric of the stimulatingly-red shirt and chuckled softly in the DI’s ear.

      “Guilty as charged.  The strength to survive such a thing, the force of will… that alone is arousing, but there is also a physical element that I will not deny.  Something most primal and undeniably powerful.”

      “And something we can explore tonight once the kids are in bed.  How many beds are going to be occupied, anyway?”

      “In truth, I am not certain.  One is guaranteed, but I do not know the minds of either Sherlock and Doctor Watson or Sherrinford and his partner in crime.”

      “Well, it doesn’t matter.  The more the merrier!  And we’ll have a dog tomorrow!”

      “I am not entirely convinced Arthur’s pet properly can be termed a dog.”

      “You’ve seen the photos, Mycroft.  Hundreds of them.”

      “Hence my doubt.”

      “Pfft.  It’s good to have a dog about during the holidays.  They keep the rugs clean and you can destroy the gifts you hate and have someone to blame who can’t call you a liar.”

      “I believe the Lestrade family Christmas celebrations were something of an energetic event.”

      “When I was a kid, they certainly were.  Relatives and friends stopping in all season long and then it was breakfast this and dinner that, along with the impromptu parties that spring up when a few people are together and someone mentions beer.  Christmas Eve through Boxing Day were fantastic!  Even Arthur would have been impressed.”

      “That is undoubtedly high praise.  And I am more than happy you are able to recapture a spark of that memory with our little gathering.”

Turning in Mycroft’s embrace, Lestrade kissed his lover and wondered if a day would come when he wouldn’t fall more deeply in love with this man from the tiny things Mycroft did and said when they were alone.  Probably not and that was the grandest thing he could possibly imagine.

      “I am _very_ sparked by all of this.  I’ll probably start crying at some point and it won’t just be because my emotions are still a touch unpredictable.”

Something that Mycroft couldn’t say was entirely a bad thing.  The anger and depression were not pleasant and made his heart ache intensely for his partner, but the periodic bouts of happy tears were a joy to behold.

      “I shall keep a handkerchief at the ready, just in case.”

      “Always prepared.  One of the many, many reasons I love you.  Speaking of…”

      “I am always happy to discuss your love for me, Gregory.  Do begin and embellish with all due detail.”

      “Silly man.  I was wondering when we were going to… announce.”

      “Ah… yes, that _is_ a question to ponder.  We had agreed on this general time period, however…”

      “No time like the present, you know.  I’m even wearing a fresh shirt.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “Having second thoughts?”

      “Nary a one, I simply…”

      “It _is_ a bit nerve wracking, isn’t it?”

      “It is!  And for no specific reason I can fathom.”

      “I suppose it’s the uncertainty.  And the finality.  You’re not entirely sure how everyone is going to react, but once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid.”

      “Not that I would ever dream of retracting my proposal.”

      “ _My_ proposal.”

Mycroft grinned impishly and kissed Lestrade on the tip of his nose.

      “I stand corrected.  My rather rambling discourse only served to ignite the fuse.”

      “I would have said yes, even to the rambling, but I thought you’d be happier with the actual words out there in the open, what with being a traditionalist to your core.”

      “You are likely correct.  It would have rankled that a formal proposal had not been offered, for our affections deserve nothing less.”

      “A traditionalist _and_ a romantic.  And, now… we’re going to do the next formal thing, which is tell the family.”

      “At least there is no one from whom we must obtain permission for our engagement.”

      “Permission, no.  Agreement not to be a complete arse, yes.”

      “Sherlock or Sherrinford?”

      “Both.”

      “I shall script a contract at my first opportunity and obtain their signatures through whatever means is necessary.”

      “That’s my Mycroft!  Dropping the fist of power right on top of the troublesome peasants’ heads.”

      “A little hobby of mine, but one that is immeasurably useful.  So… shall we?”

      “We shall.”

Lestrade took his fiancé’s arm and walked him towards the stairs, using the arm for support for the still-worrisome trip downwards and, finally, back to the sitting room where the festivities were continuing in full frolic.

      “Arthur, do you operate in any mode but frolicky?”

      “Hmmmmm… I’ll have to think about that Doctor Sam.  Right off, I’d have to say yes, because I have Cabin Steward mode, and Detective’s Assistant mode, and Doctor’s Assistant mode, and probably other modes that are special for Skip and Mum and cats, but I’ll give it some thought before I give you an answer.”

      “You already have, kid.”

      “Hurray!  I love being efficient!”

While everyone in the room struggled not to laugh, Mycroft cleared his throat and drew the attention to him and Lestrade.

      “Scotch is good for that phlegm, Skinny.”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.  Now, if you might keep your adoration of all things alcohol-based in check for just a moment, Gregory and I have something we would like to say.”

Which was what Sam had already deduced from the ramrod stiff alignment of his brother’s spine and ridiculously smug glint in Lestrade’s eyes, but what was an engagement announcement without that one relative that keeps the mood from spiraling down the toilet of maudlin sentiment?

      “I am now checking my adoration.”

      “Your cooperation is appreciated.  My dear, would you take the honors?”

      “Nah, you’ve got a better voice for something like this.”

Refusing to preen and endure the scorn of his two infernal brothers, Mycroft settled for straightening his waistcoat and nodding his acceptance.

      “Very well, if you are certain…”

      “John!  Mycroft is trying to bore me to death on the doorstep of Christmas!”

      “Mr. Sherlock, I don’t think Mycroft is trying to bore you, he’s just got something to say and it must be an important something because Mycroft is very good at saying things and the fact that he’s a tad waffly is, I suspect, a clue about the… importantness.”

Martin patted his husband’s knee and reveled in the combination snarl/grudging concession that contorted the detective’s face.  There was a great deal of satisfaction seeing the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes knocked down a peg and the fact that Arthur was doing the knocking made the satisfaction all the sweeter.

      “If the upcoming speech concerns cake, then you will be proven right.  Otherwise, the purpose of Mycroft’s oration is to bore me to death so that he does not have to part with the Christmas gift that Lestrade likely demanded he purchase for me and see its return to the shops for a refund of monies that he can use to buy cake.  Cake _will_ figure into the scenario in some fashion, on that you have my word.”

Sam used the water pistol he had brought to the celebration to squirt Sherlock in the face, much as one would do to a misbehaving cat and received exactly the response one would expect _from_ misbehaving cat.  The hissing and spitting was enough to propel John towards the drinks trolley for a refill of his preferred Christmas libation.  Mycroft certainly stocked a fine bar and he was in precisely the right mood to enjoy it to its fullest.  His and Sherlock’s first Christmas as a married couple.  Barring a dead body or two, this was about the best he could have hoped for and that best was wildly enjoyable.

      “Calm your ass down, Baby.  Look at Dougie, here?  Plenty of ass and plenty of calm.  Use him as your Buddha.”

      “You still cannot be distressed by your defeat at my oh-so-capable hands for Snakes and Ladders, Sherry, old thing?  Good heavens, one would think you had a rather pathological need to win even the most juvenile of contests.  Oh right… you do.  My apologies, that rather glaring character flaw slipped my mind for a moment.”

Mycroft pinched the giggling Lestrade and wondered what life was like in families that were not so replete with reprobates and infants.  Cripplingly dull, most likely…

      “If Gregory and I might insert ourselves into your verbal sparring, for just one moment…”

      “Right!  Yes!  Everyone be very quiet and listen _very_ hard because Mycroft has something important to say.”

If Arthur stared any more forcefully at the affianced couple, Mycroft and Lestrade worried that the steward’s eyes would pop from his skull and decided that a quick revelation was in everyone’s best interests.

      “Thank you, Arthur.  Now that we have everyone’s attention… it is my pleasure, and my most heartfelt honor, to announce that Gregory and I are to be married.  Gregory proffered the proposal and I happily accepted.”

Both men instinctively adopted a bracing stance to withstand the launched missile that was an overjoyed Arthur Shappey and were not disappointed when he collided with them a microsecond after the announcement.

      “BRILLIANT!  This is… AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

      “Congratulations!  I wondered when Greg would step forward and make you an honest man.”

      “Thank you, John.  I do feel most truthful at the moment.”

As Mycroft despaired of salvaging his lovely tie due to Arthur’s use of it as a dab for his tears of joy, Lestrade shared a happy grin with the rest of the room who were beaming at the newly-engaged couple.  All, of course, except one.

      “What’s wrong, Sherlock?  Worried I’ll keep your brother so busy he won’t have time to play with you anymore?”

      “Now is the Christmas of my discontent, made horrible by… everyone.”

      “That’s the spirit!  Have more of whatever it is you’re drinking and let that discontent sink right into the bones.”

Sherlock’s death rattle fooled no one, because the twinkle in his eyes completely ruined his lethal exasperation in the eyes of every individual in the room.

      “I despair your lack of even the remnants of comprehension of basic speech, Lestrade.”

      “You definitely need another drink.  Someone pour Sherlock something strong while… well, while _everyone_ has something strong.  I think this deserves extremely liquid celebration.”

      “No argument from me!”

      “Thank you, Sherrinford.   While you deplete my spirits stores, might you serve our other guests so the enjoyment of my fine liquor might be a shared one?”

Mycroft received his own squirt from Sam’s watery firearm, but the middle Holmes couldn’t say he cared because his suit was already becoming quite sodden from Arthur’s glee and… the exceptionally proud look on his brother’s face was something he remembered well from childhood.  Unlike then, however, he appreciated the emotion behind it and again, unlike in childhood, it meant something to him.  Something surprisingly deep and welcome.

      “Oh… this is wonderful… Skip Brilliant! wonderful… maybe Skip, Kip and Kit! wonderful…”

Martin’s ‘we’re not getting pets!’ was shushed by Mycroft who gently pried Arthur off of him and half of Lestrade and smiled tenderly at the highly-emotional younger man.

      “I take it you are happy with our news?”

      “Happy?  Oh, that’s not nearly the word, Mycroft.  I’d… well, I’ll admit I’d hoped you and Greg would get married, but with you both being so busy and having so much to keep your eye on…”

      “Fortunately, Gregory’s love for me is such that nothing stood as an obstacle in his path to make his proposal.”

      “I thought you would do it, actually.”

Mycroft shared a look with his fiancé over Arthur’s shoulder and admired the Detective Inspector’s looking-at-the-ceiling-and-whistling bit of pantomime.

      “Well, it is a much-guarded secret, but I _did_ make the first attempt, one that failed utterly due to the rather devastating surge of emotion I experienced while endeavoring to utter the necessary words.  Gregory was sufficiently kind to step in and do the deed for me.”

      “BRILLIANT!  What’s better than a real proposal?  One you can’t make because you’re so happy!”

Arthur hugged Mycroft and half-hugged Greg again, before Martin disentangled his husband from the couple and pulled him back to sit and settle himself a little, though ‘a little’ was likely to be exceptionally little, in Arthur’s case.  If there was a being in creation more capable of harboring joy than Wing Commander Arthur Shappey, they had probably already ascended to a higher form of life and left the rest of them behind.

      “I must say, Mr. Almighty Holmes, engagement suits you.  Your pallor is decidedly less sepulchral than its typical shade and I believe I spy something other than grave dirt on your lapel.  I’m not certain if vestiges of Arthur are an appropriate substitute, but they’re colorful, if nothing else.”

Mycroft made to brush the glitter off of his jacket but, realizing the futility of the action, settled for smiling menacingly at Douglas who was a cad suitable only for Sherrinford and his own flavor of social dyspepsia.  How fortunate that they had become friends so other, more innocent, victims would be spared their beastliness.  Aged, creaky, pompous beastliness…

      “Thank you for your aesthetic assessment, Mr. Richardson.  Do remember that when your vehicle fails to gain its MOT certificate… ever again.”

      “Excellent abuse of power, Your Majesty.  I’d doff my cap to you, but I don’t have a cap and, though young Arthur would surely offer to make one for me, I don’t have any plans to increase either the quantity or diversity of my headwear.”

Before Arthur could leap into the conversation with felt, scissors and tinsel, Douglas tossed him a particularly scrumptious cheese-filled phyllo square and neatly averted the Great Christmas Cap Crisis for the time being.

      “Well, I, for one, am excited for this news.  It’s certainly time these two stopped living in sin and embarrassing the rest of us with their bohemian lifestyle.  Sherlock agrees completely, though he’s currently dead and can’t add verbal support to my position.  Cheers, Mycroft and Greg.  Really, this is wonderful news.”

John raised his glass to toast the now-openly engaged pair and Greg felt himself tear up when everyone else followed suit.  This was what life was all about… finding that place where you fit and where others were glad you fit in with them.  He had a family, a real family, and that was something… oh…

      “I do believe Gregory is in need of his own beverage.  Martin, would you be so kind?”

Mycroft took a moment to wipe the tear off of Lestrade’s cheek and kissed the spot it met its demise.

      “I love you, Gregory Lestrade.  Moreover, our family loves you, as well as the life and light you bring to our lives.”

      “No!  You’re really going to make me cry, you bastard!”

      “Please do.  I could use the moisture to assist with the removal of the glitter on my jacket.”

Giving Lestrade a hug and whispering his undying devotion into his lover’s ear, Mycroft escorted the DI over to the sofa, used his foot to shove Sherlock over and set his partner down in the empty space so Martin could hand over Greg’s drink while Mycroft pulled over the ottoman and take his own seat next to Lestrade’s legs.

      “If there is a footprint on my trousers, Mycroft, you will be purchasing for me _three_ new pairs in recompense.”

John’s foot immediately ground itself agatinst Sherlock’s trouser fabric and he smiled in satisfaction with the light smudging he produced.

      “There.  New trousers.  You need a new pair, anyway, so why not get three from the deal.”

      “Very practical, Doctor Watson.  I highly approve.”

      “Thank you, Mycroft.  Now, I believe a bracing round of Nerf darts was next on our agenda?”

John’s smile didn’t last long as Sam reached behind the cushion of his chair, removed the already-loaded Nerf gun and set a dart in the center of John’s forehead.

      “You killed me?  We were supposed to be on the same team!  Shooting at an actual target!”

      “Sorry, baby, but this cowboy works alone.”

While John scrambled for a weapon and Arthur dove to get the target set up, Martin leaned back with his drink and had to admit that this was the best Christmas he’d had in… well, in memory, recent or not.  Even Sherlock was tolerable!  And, only once or twice in the past several months had his _little problem_ been any form of a problem at all.  It was still there, hiding in the shadows, but those shadows had shrunk to a very manageable size of late mostly because, not that he would ever say this aloud, he was starting to believe himself worthy of the great gift that was his husband and that he was being the husband Arthur deserved him to be.  It had taken a good bit of therapy and an embarrassing number of emergency phone calls to Sam when he was having a rather panicky moment, but… it was working.  He was doing his job, being a husband, as well as a son-in-law, part of an extended family and the urges to turn to the wrong type of help to get through the day were rapidly decreasing.  If nothing else found its way into his Christmas stocking, that would be more than he could have dreamed for a holiday present.

      “Sherry, this dart does not make a sufficiently sturdy handle for my beverage, so I am at a loss as to why said beverage is now sporting a souvenir of your rabid need for carnage.”

      “Could be an alien, Dougie.  Didn’t you see _Men in Black_?”

      “I love that movie!  There’s this cute little doggy, though not as cute as Snoopadoop, of course, and…”

Arthur proceeded to enact the entire plot of the film, leaving Lestrade the opportunity to run his hand up through Mycroft’s hair and loosen the strands into the softer style he preferred when they were at home.  Which was a phrase that still sent tremors through his body in the most delightful of ways.  _At home_ with Mycroft.  This was his home now, where his family visited and celebrated all the things that families celebrate – holidays, birthdays, special occasions, good news… And where he and his soon-to-be husband celebrated each day together no matter how routine or exciting they might be.  Of course, they would actually have to _become_ husbands first, and the road to that had yet to be navigated.  At this point, watching the darts begin to fly and Sherlock using a lighter to see how easily they would burn, a quiet, lackadaisical path was beginning to seem like a very wise idea…


	32. Chapter 32

It wasn’t uncommon for Martin to wake without Arthur in bed with him, but what _was_ unusual was the lack of music, singing, clanging, banging, occasional tweeting and the rather worrying crashing that usually accompanied the event.  Yes, he was already attuned to their typical domestic symphony, but couldn’t find one single reason to call that a bad thing.  However, if Arthur was awake and not in bed, that meant he was already cooking in Mycroft’s massive kitchen and _that_ meant tea and breakfast, which sounded like an extremely good idea at the moment.  Last night’s revelry continued until the wee hours and maybe, just maybe, he’d enjoyed a little more of Mycroft’s scotch than was good for him, something that necessitated fortifying himself today so that he could enjoy a little more than was good for him of Mycroft’s scotch tonight, too.

Slowly following his nose, Martin found the kitchen, but not the person he expected to find in it.

      “Greg?”

      “Ta Dah!  Watch as the maimed and mutilated maul a lovely fry up and mug of truly awful coffee!”

It was still slightly jarring to find his soon-to-be cousin-in-law on his feet, let alone _smiling_ and on his feet, but, again, there wasn’t one reason to call that a bad thing.

      “I’m surprised Mycroft lets you anywhere near the stove, actually.  I think he’d be terrified you’d fall into the food and burn yourself to death.”

      “It was a battle, I admit, but after standing so close to me for the first few tries I felt our hips welding together, he agreed that I was cleared to fry a few things, make toast and coffee.  Beyond that, I have to ‘secure the proper assistance or phone and have the meal delivered.’ “

      “Notice my lack of astonishment and disbelief.  But, I would have thought he’d have someone to do the cooking for you.  I think he did at one point, actually.  Have someone in to cook, I mean.”

      “She’s enjoying a very nice time, relaxing at home while collecting her wages.  I think… well, I think Mycroft’s not comfortable with people being here when I’m alone in the house.  Family, yes, but even people he knows and probably had investigated back to their ancestors who beat rocks together, he’s not ready for that.  Even the cleaning staff now have to work around his schedule so he’s here when they do their tidying.”

      “That’s sad.”

      “It is.  But… I understand it.  Honestly, if someone tried anything, I couldn’t do much about it in the shape I’m in.  In a few more months it’ll be a different story, but he’s worried and I won’t fault him for that.  The benefit is we get to have fun making dinner together when we can and I’ve got a list of restaurants, actually a file of lists of restaurants, I can phone to have anything I want brought by if I’m too tired or it’s been too appalling a day for me to even pour a bowl of cereal.”

      “Don’t tell Arthur, or he’ll demand to move back here and be the cook until you’re sorted out.  And, speaking of Arthur…”

      “Off with Sherlock.”

      “Should I be worried?”

      “Hmmmmm… probably not.  To start, they’re visiting Molly so Arthur can give her the Christmas gift he brought.  Something about cats and hats?”

      “Oh yes… Version 14.5, too.  He’s had a jolly time with his knitting needles and the plush cat he bought to be his model.”

      “Oh, a hat for a cat.  Well, that makes sense.”

      “It’s a people hat so you can wear your cat on your head and take a walk so they have some fresh air and a lovely stroll.”

Lestrade laughed and had to admit that Arthur came up with some amazing ideas, at times.  If he’d teamed with Moriarty, that evil bastard would have been a thousand times more pesky to deal with, though, perhaps, a bit more fun.

      “A concept that will certainly appeal to Molly.  Even if she doesn’t wear her cat on her head, I can assure you she’ll let it sleep in its new house or put it to another cat-related use.  Besides that start to the day and whatever else they find to do, I might know that Sherlock’s got tickets in his pocket for a matinee showing of a very well-reviewed panto.  That was my idea, so please feel free to thank me with carrying this plate to the table and starting to eat while I make one for myself.”

Martin smirked and accepted the offer of breakfast with a song in his heart.  Sherlock would hate that, Arthur would love it, so this day was officially wonderful.

      “Well, Arthur will stay entertained, that much is certain.  Sherlock has a surprising… dare I say, tenderness… for Arthur and I won’t say it’s strange because that might hex things and I’m certain that’s illegal at Christmas, somehow.”

      “It is.  I can find the exact law at some point, but we run in countless blokes each year for unlawful Christmas hexing.  There’s a ‘with perilous intent’ version, too, which is much more serious.”

      “Good to know.  Now, onto matters that are _not_ good to know, any idea when Sam and Douglas are going to ruin our day, I mean, grace us with their presence?”

      “Not early, so you can relax.  I have no doubt they have a full agenda of mischief planned that won’t end until they’re evicted from every reputable establishment in London.  They did mention paying a visit to your mother and prying away Mr. Shipwright for a few pre-family, nerve-settling drinks, so there’s that to look forward to.  Three gents older than me, two of which are teetery from too much Christmas cheer and the party is just starting.”

      “This keeps getting better and better.  I’ve got access to an airplane, you know.  We can be on a tropical island where it’s warm and the only teetery people in the vicinity will be us.  Contentedly so, at that.”

      “That’s not a bad offer, but Mycroft would have us returned and give us the same frown dad’s give when their sons do something naughty.  That would put me right off my Christmas dinner.”

      “Which is probably going to be unbelievably amazing.  Since all we’d have is fish and coconuts if we abandoned ship, I suppose I can weather the celebration with most of my sanity still intact.”

      “Not to mention, you and I have a job to do.”

Martin paused shoveling his breakfast into his appreciative mouth and shot a quizzical look at Lestrade, who was making his best attempt to dance along with the music playing in the kitchen.  That consisted mostly of swaying gently to the beat, but he added a bit of hip action to particularly exciting bits for emphasis.

      “A job?”

      “Surprise!  Actually, you’re not the only one who’s going to be surprised, so don’t feel out of the loop.”

      “I…… see.  And, can I know the nature of this surprise job that I am required to perform?”

      “Right after breakfast.  It’ll take a bit of time to get everything ready, especially at the pace I can move.  It’s going to be my first time in a cab, too, since my death, so that should be fun.”

Now, Martin completely set down his fork and stared at Greg’s back, wishing he inherited any of Sherlock and Mycroft’s skill with observation and deduction.  Perhaps, though, he did inherit the _smallest_ of amounts, because a small light went on in his head and he shook that head in a very good impersonation of someone who knows this is going to end badly, but is actually interested in seeing the downfall occur.

      “Mycroft doesn’t know about whatever you need me for, does he?”

      “He does.  And, by that, I mean in a way that he completely doesn’t because he thinks you’re helping me get things ready for the final run to Christmas, which is true, in the broadest and most generic sense, meaning hardly, but enough so that when he does give me that disappointed dad stare I have some material to use for my stare-proof safety vest.”

      “You’re going to really die this time.  He is going to kill you and have your head mounted on the wall so he has a target to throw things at when Sherlock is making him peevish.”

      “I’ve had a good life.  Ending it as a decoration for Mycroft’s study isn’t the worst way to face eternity.”

      “He’s going to kill me, too, you know.  Arthur a widower already… that’s going to be on your mounted head, as well.”

      “Arthur can use his paints to write rude things on me.”

      “Rude things?”

      “Forgot who I was talking about.  He can chide me in his jolly way about doing something stupid and getting us both killed by Mycroft in a snit.  Sherlock will console, him, though, so he’ll be alright.”

Martin snickered and decided that Christmas killings and the drunken elderly wasn’t entirely out of order for their merry band.  Now, they only needed Carolyn to become a nun and Snoopadoop to reveal her true identity as a were-cockapoo for the holiday to be complete.

      “Alright, you have my fullest cooperation.”

      “That’s the spirit!  More food?”

      “Yes, please.  I suspect I’m going to need my strength for what’s to come.”

      “I suspect you’re right.  How much can you lift, anyway?”

      “I… I don’t know exactly.”

      “Looks like you’ll learn something new about yourself.  Merry Christmas!”

__________

      “That… that was brilliant!!!”

 As was most of their day so far, but Sherlock had learned that making note of repetition and redundancy gained him nothing but Arthur’s polite agreement and continuing on because he wasn’t entirely certain how repetition and redundancy applied to his preferred method of communication.

      “It was ghastly.”

      “No, I think you’re using that word incorrectly.”

      “Would you prefer horrifying?  Mind-destroying?  Inane?  Asinine?”

      “Not really.”

      “Then, I shall stay with ghastly.”

      “Well, I think it was brilliant.  Amazingly, wonderfully brilliant and I know you do, too, because you didn’t groan or snort once during the entire performance.”

      “I did, I was simply quiet about it out of respect for the audience.”

      “Mr. Sherlock… you do know I know you’re telling a fib, right?”

      “I am being entirely truthful.”

      “No, because, to be honest, if you want to snort or groan, you do it because, well, you don’t actually respect very many people, which isn’t a terribly good thing, but you’re not mean about it… most of the time… so I know for a fact that you told a fib.”

Sherlock’s waving off Arthur’s analysis made the steward laugh because it was the specific waving off Sherlock made when you were right about something but he’d have his tongue cut out before actually saying it out loud.

      “Besides, there was everything!  Costumes, singing, lots of happy people and what’s better at Christmas than happy people?”

      “A plague.”

      “No, I think that would rather spoil Christmas, actually, because I’ve seen pictures of the plague in books and it doesn’t at all look good for promoting Christmas cheer.”

      “Unlike your jumper.”

Arthur smoothed his customized Christmas Eve jumper which boasted a large Christmas tree to which the detective’s assistant had added a variety of handcrafted ornaments, sewn on several miles of tinsel and surrounded by felt-created presents that could be opened like a book to show the surprises they contained.  Something which Arthur had delighted in demonstrating to every person who happened to stop next to them for more than a split second.

      “It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

      “In that it produces a vast quantity of reflected light, yes it is.”

      “Ah ha!  I knew you liked it.  I’m going to make one for Skip next year.  We were a tad too busy this season for me to make two, what with having to sort out the house and those decorations, Mum’s house and those decorations, make and shop for gifts, sing carols…”

      “Your holiday preparations were extensive, I understand.”

      “They were.  But, Skip said he didn’t mind waiting for his own jumper and, next year, I’m going to make a matching pair, though Skip’s will be rather small compared to mine and that’s going to be a brilliant thing simply on its own.”

      “I have no doubt Martin will have a _very_ intense reaction to his new garment.”

Which made Sherlock mentally laugh loudly and make a note to demand a bounty of photographic evidence of the presentation of the offending article and its wearing.

      “Thanks!  Rather like Molly and her Cat in the Hat.”

Who displayed a decidedly traitorous streak, in Sherlock’s opinion, by failing to show only polite interest in Arthur’s invention and, instead, emitted an ear-splitting squeal and spent an inordinate amount of time modeling it and discussing both its construction and use with the steward.

      “Yes, she was most overjoyed with your yarn-based Christmas catastrophe.”

      “It’s not for you to understand, Mr. Sherlock.  You don’t cat, so you don’t get the hat.”

While Arthur giggled at his vaguely hip-hop pantomime to accompany his vaguely hip-hop lyric, Sherlock died from the agony, but revived with the text alert that sounded in his pocket.

      “Oh!  Is that Doctor Watson?”

Looking at the text, Sherlock found himself very at a loss how to answer his holiday companion.

      “No, it is not John…”

      “What’s wrong?  Something’s wrong, isn’t it?  Tell me what’s wrong, Mr. Sherlock.  No!  Don’t tell me what’s wrong.  Wait!  Do tell me what’s wrong!  Or not.  Or maybe just a little and it’s alright to fib if it’s really, really bad unless I actually _should_ know, in which case…”

Sherlock’s hand fitted quite nicely over Arthur’s mouth and the steward waited patiently, while Sherlock used his free hand to peck a bit on his phone, which prompted a concerted hmmmmm… and another quandary about discussing the matter with Arthur.

      “It is Martin.  He wishes us to meet him.”

      “Oh.  That doesn’t sound terribly terrible.”

It did if the meeting place was a hospital.  And he was with Lestrade.

      “I have no information as to the purpose of this meeting, so I cannot comment upon the… terribleness.  However, he did ask that we make some haste, so it is perhaps wise to take his suggestion to heart.”

      “Maybe he has a surprise for us and can’t wait to let us have it.”

That was very likely the case, however, ‘surprise’ was not the emotionally-proper word, in all likelihood.  Fortunately, there were ways to access this particular hospital so that Arthur might not glean the nature of their destination until it was fully upon them.  Dragging a weeping Arthur or, worse, chasing after a frantic and very lost Arthur would not aid the cause of efficiency.

      “Perhaps so.  I presume the only way to discover the fact is to actually obey his summons.”

      “Yes!  Why are we still standing here?”

      “Because your feet have yet to move.”

      “Right!  Feet moving… are they going in the right direction?”

      “No.”

      “Oh.  Which way to do I go?”

Sherlock motioned Arthur to his side and gave him the ‘do not move from my side and yes I know you are going to mime my every action because of it’ look, so Arthur remained in place while a cab was hailed.  The expedient travel and the emergency supply of Toblerones in his pocket should ensure Arthur’s calm for their trip.  And, if needed, some balm if the news was grim…

__________

      “You are a ludicrous jackanapes.”

      “Love you, too, Sherlock.”

Having the cab drop them a block from the building and using a rear entrance, combined with a selection of stairs brought Sherlock and Arthur to the correct floor of the hospital, fortunately, without encountering any personnel or patients to divulge their location until they stepped into the corridor.  Predictably, Arthur had suffered a harsh nervous event seeing where they were and now was hyperventilating rather distressingly.  Of course, not for the _reason_ of his harsh nervous event.

      “And you have broken Arthur.”

Lestrade grinned proudly and was supported by an equally-large grin from Martin, who was gently calming his husband as Arthur stared into the box he’d been handed.

      “I… I… I… I…”

      “Evidence!  Arthur is broken beyond repair and on your head be it, Lestrade.  Martin is also at fault and the wrath you will suffer for this will be mighty and eternal.  Arthur’s mother, alone, will see you exist in nothing but a pool of bitter tears for the remainder of your accursed days.”

      “I… I… I… I…”

      “Yes, my darling husband.  One of your dreams come true.”

Martin’s smile was as large as Lestrade’s and he deemed the oncoming wrath, especially from Mycroft, completely worth it.

      “I GET TO BE AN ELF!”

      “That you do!  As soon as we get into our suits, you get to be my elf.  I, a rather slow and bedraggled Father Christmas, am going to have lots of children sitting with me to chat and get their gift and we’ll visit the ones who can’t leave their beds, too.  I may need my own bed, at some point, or, at least, a little spin in a chair, because there are a _lot_ of children here tonight who need a boost and we’re the ones who are going to give it to them.”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade and fingered his phone, waiting for the moment it wouldn’t immediately be snatched away to text the person who would be volcanic that the Christmas spirit had overcome Lestrade’s good sense and had him believing himself a bringer of glad tidings.

      “This is absolutely prohibited.  How did this idiocy even rise in your brain?”

      “It’s not prohibited, because I’m an adult, thank you very much, and in charge of my own life.  And, for your information, I learned that they were having a hard time finding Father Christmases to visit the various children’s hospitals and charities, so I volunteered!  The police ranks usually volunteer their time when they can, being Father Christmas or an elf or helper or whatnot, but there’s a nasty flu going and the usual suspects are diminished this year.  I’ve nothing else to do today, so… voila!”

Holding up his beard and hat did not make Sherlock vanish in a puff of smoke or put a holiday sparkle in his eye, so Lestrade began seriously to question the existence of Christmas magic.

      “You are in no condition for this.”

      “Greg’s rested a lot today, Sherlock, and isn’t clueless about what he can and cannot manage.  Besides, we’re surrounded by doctors and nurses, so if there’s any problem, which I absolutely doubt there will be, it won’t be a problem for long.”

Lestrade nodded his thanks to Martin and was happy the pilot had finally been convinced to go along with the merriment.  That was its own struggle as Martin’s reaction was the same as Sherlock’s in sentiment, if not in the level of doomsaying.  The chance for Arthur to be a Christmas elf and make children smile, however, had tipped the balance nicely.

      “I GET TO BE AN ELF!”

      “Martin, why don’t you start getting Arthur dressed and Sherlock can help me.  The fun starts in about half an hour and we don’t want to keep the children waiting.”

Arthur was flinging off his clothes even before Lestrade finished speaking and Martin was glad they’d brought him and Sherlock into the changing room before making the announcement, because his husband would have no problem distributing presents wearing nothing but a cap and pointy shoes.

      “This is unwise, Lestrade.”

      “No, it’s not.  I have an elf to help me and Martin is going to be hovering to lend a hand if needed.”

      “Will he be in costume?”

      “No, that’s for Arthur alone.”

      “What if I inform you that Arthur is very much an advocate of matching clothes for wedded couples?”

      “I only reserved one elf outfit and I’m not going to send people looking for bits and pieces because you want a photo of Martin in elf gear.”

Sherlock’s pout was as good as any verbal admission, but it warmed the DI’s heart, nonetheless.  From what he’d learned, Sherlock and Martin’s relationship had a distressing foundation, but… things seemed to be quite different now and that was another blessing their new, extended family could add to their growing count.

      “Now, help me into my lovely red suit and you can hover with Martin and make certain I don’t perish with some poor child on my lap or you can go off to terrorize the various morgue attendants and pathologists for your own bit of holiday fun.”

      “I am going to document this entire process so that, when your demise does occur, the blame cannot, in any manner, be laid on me.”

      “Very supportive.  That’s what I admire about you, Sherlock.  Now, my coat?”

      “I refuse to touch it.”

      “They clean them between jobs, you know.”

      “Who cleans them?  Prisoners?  I can see the pestilence squirming from here.”

      “That’ll make my jolly laugh all the jollier.  I’m incredibly ticklish when it comes to squirming.  Now… coat?”

The expected drama of Sherlock touching and lifting the large red and white coat was exactly as entertaining as Lestrade predicted and he vowed that this would be something they would repeat every year it could possibly happen.  You couldn’t buy this quality of Christmas entertainment.  Though, he had no doubt, Sherlock would try if it would keep him personally away from anything associated with joy or jubilation…

__________

_The situation is dire – SH_

Mycroft was used to receiving hysterical and ridiculous texts from his brother, but the fact that he had phoned his fiancé only moments ago and received no response made the timing of this text both alarming and highly worrying.

_Report – MH_

_It is too distressing to put in to words – SH_

_Report immediately – MH_

_It is Lestrade – SH_

Mycroft was out of his chair, reaching for his valise and coat, hoping that the beating of his heart was not as audible to the rest of the world as it was in his own ears, when his eyes fell upon the video Sherlock uploaded, whereupon he fell back into his chair, mouth gaping at the sight of an eyes-only recognizable partner and a _highly_ recognizable Christmas elf surrounded by children, gifts and an assortment paraphernalia one associated with a  frolicky Christmas event.

_Witness the downfall of civilization – SH_

_Your fiancé is the bringer of the apocalypse – SH_

_Arthur is an unwitting minion – SH_

_Martin is useless, as expected – SH_

A quick check of Sherlock’s location laid in the final pieces to this puzzle and, once again, valise and coat were in hand, though without the near-fatal heart incident accompanying their transport.

_On my way – MH_

_Have you a magic sword to thwart the sorcery – SH_

Stopping one final time to grab his umbrella, Mycroft checked its heft and decided that yes… yes, he did.

__________

      “This is brilliant!”

Arthur’s excited shimmy made the small girl approaching Father Christmas giggle loudly, which served to make Arthur’s shimmy all the more excited and Lestrade smile proudly at his elf.  This was exactly what he’d expected when he volunteered for this and said he had the perfect helper elf to bring along.  And the kiddies were so happy, seeing Arthur overflowing with Christmas cheer, handing them gifts and sweets, singing songs and talking to them with an interest adults usually didn’t take when talking to children… it _was_ brilliant.

      “Oh…”

Well, except for that.

Looking down the long hospital corridor, Lestrade and Arthur spied a tall, dark, imposing figure framed in a doorway, light spilling out around him as if it was actually afraid to touch the man and fall into his inky depths.  And he was frowning.

      “Greg…”

      “Brave heart, Arthur.  I’m sending Martin to intercept.”

Lestrade pointed at Martin and flicked the pointing finger in Mycroft’s direction, huffing a frustrated breath when Martin stepped behind Sherlock to avoid being the point of the point.

      “I mean I’m sending Sherlock to intercept.”

Happy that Sherlock didn’t return the point and flick with a rude gesture, it still required several points, flicks and terribly non-Father Christmas-y scowls to get the detective in motion to meet the specter slowly and menacingly striding towards them.

      “Your failure to keep your concubine on a tight leash has resulted in this, Mycroft.  Witness the result of your lax hand.”

      “Why is Gregory here?”

      “Are you deaf?  I provided a very succinct overview of the situation.”

      “Details, if you please.”

      “Very well.  You are lazy and overindulgent.  Therefore…”

Mycroft snorted and waved off his brother as he focused on the scene playing out in front of him.  His partner was seated, thank heavens for small favors and, if he was pressed to make an admission, Arthur was doing the majority of the lifting and moving, leaving his dearly beloved to smile and talk with the children who seemed most excited by his presence.  It wasn’t…. _precisely_ strenuous though it had certainly been going on for some time and the weight of that infernal suit could not be easy for his beloved to bear.

      “When did you learn of this?”

      “When Lestrade texted me to meet him and Martin at this particular hospital and that Arthur should accompany me.  We came immediately here and found… this.”

      “And you completely failed to inform _me_ at any point during your transit.”

      “I… I was uncertain as to the nature of the issue and did not want to suffer your hysteria only to find there was nothing of note actually wrong with Lestrade.  I, however, was wrong.  He has gone insane.”

Something Mycroft was beginning to contemplate with some seriousness.  Did his lover believe this was actually recommended for his health?  He certainly did not discuss this in any manner with his physicians for Sherrinford would have immediately proved infantile and spilled the secret to amuse himself and John would have demonstrated due concern and raised the question in a confidential discussion on most professional terms.  Either way, this was not a medically-endorsed activity.  However… Gregory seemed to be enjoying himself greatly and would certainly take profound satisfaction from bringing Christmas cheer to those who dearly needed it.

      “Well?  Are you simply going to stand there or are you going to do your husbandly duty and drag your intended home?”

      “Yes, I am certain Gregory would respond very well to being dragged out of a hospital wearing a Father Christmas costume.”

      “You are already henpecked.”

      “I sincerely doubt this facility allows the admittance of poultry.”

      “Your procrastination is repugnant.”

It was not procrastination.  It was… there was no specific element to which he could forcefully object beyond… it was too soon!  Gregory was not ready for this form of exertion and… no, it was not dangerously strenuous, but… too soon!  His love would be so fatigued, so pained…

      “And despite the repugnance, you continue to procrastinate.  I am offended to stand in proximity to you.”

      “Then be elsewhere.  I… I am surveying the scene and analyzing its impact on Gregory.”

      “You are lying, as well as failing in your role as caregiver and protector of your betrothed.  If your shame does not dissolve your flesh, I will declare you unfit for matrimony.”

Mycroft moved towards the less-irritating member of the family who was trying to blend in to his surroundings by hiding behind a potted plant.

      “Martin, you are being spectacularly unsuccessful with your attempt at camouflage.”

      “Martin left an hour ago.”

      “I will credit you with a marginal attempt to disguise your voice, however, few elderly women sport quite such an impressively-vibrant head of hair.”

      “It’s colored.”

Dragging Martin from his hiding place, Mycroft favored him with a disappointed frown and a stern measure of tsk-tsking.

      “You were party to this, cousin.  In fact, from your indicting behavior, I suspect you were instrumental in seeing this come to pass.”

      “I… no… well, yes.  But, I made certain Greg had an easy time of it.  He did well, Mycroft.  Took things slowly and didn’t hesitate to take a moment to catch his breath if needed.  Look at him – does he look in poor condition?”

      “How would I know?  There is naught to see but beard.”

      “If he even winces, Arthur is going to notice and drop everything to race to find a doctor.”

      “How will he be able to accomplish the task when any form of running will be thwarted by the ludicrously pointed shoes he is wearing.”

      “It’s Arthur.  Do you truly believe these are the first ludicrously pointed shoes he’s worn?  Or has taken for a run?”

      “Very well, I see your point.”

      “Besides, there’s only a little more time for this part and then the visits to the children who couldn’t leave their beds, which Greg has already planned for and is prepared to take slowly and carefully.  Arthur’s carrying the gift sack and I’m pushing the additional gifts on a cart.  Really, Mycroft, it’s going to be fine.”

If only Mycroft could convince himself of the fact.  It was not so long ago that his lover was in a hospital such as this for a very different reason.  A reason that still prompted the most terrifying of nightmares on both their parts.

      “I will compromise to the point where I shall observe the proceedings for evidence to support either Gregory’s removal or his remaining and only when I am satisfied as to the proper decision shall I take the necessary action.”

      “Very magnanimous of you to compromise when you’re going to make the decision about Greg’s life without consulting him.”

Martin closed his eyes very tightly and hoped when he opened them Mycroft wouldn’t still be sending death glares into his heart.  No, that failed.  He was being death-glared even more fiercely.  They cauterized the wound in his chest, though, so the clean floor wasn’t being insulted by his life’s blood.

      “I’m going behind my plant again.”

      “Yes, perhaps that is wise.”

Continuing to death-glare Martin until he was securely guarded by his Ficus, Mycroft slightly turned his head to ensure Sherlock had not heard Martin’s final rejoinder and seethed silently on the sidelines of the proceedings.  Martin was entirely wrong.  There was not a degree of wrong greater than that reached by Martin this very evening.  There was _nothing_ wrong with being concerned about his fiancé, nothing at all.  Perhaps he had phrased his thoughts in a fashion that might be interpreted as controlling by the uncharitable, such as the one currently quivering behind a selection of leaves, but that was certainly not the case.  Not the case, at all…

__________

After half an hour, the remainder of the children had their visit with Father Christmas and, as they were escorted back to their rooms, the Father Christmas support team went into action preparing to take their show on the road.  Though, Father Christmas himself lagged behind to have a conversation with the Grim Reaper.

      “Hello, love.”

      “Gregory.”

      “How do I look?”

      “Red.”

Single syllables.  This wasn’t good.

      “Yeah, it’s not the best look for me, but the children like it.  Little eyes lighting up and great big smiles… just a beautiful thing.  Don’t you think?”

      “No.”

Eep.

      “Not even a little?”

      “Gregory… I am most distressed with this.”

      “I’m fine, love!  Really, I’ve not been at all stupid and have had Martin with me every step of the way.”

      “And concealed the entire situation from me!”

      “Yes, but… I…”

Mycroft sighed at the dropped eyes and his lover cautiously biting his lower lip and felt a pang in his heart that he was the cause.

      “Why did you not share this with me, my dear?  What… was there something that had you concerned?”

      “I didn’t mention it…. because I really didn’t want this conversation.  Not now, at least.”

      “Please, Gregory… if I speak fondly of your appearance in fields of red fabric, will that make the discussion easier?”

Lestrade smiled gently and knew he couldn’t love his fiancé any more if he tried.

      “It will and thank you.  In truth, I only had the idea last week when I talked to Anderson and he said they were sending out the pleading emails for volunteers to help with the various things we do during the holidays to connect with the community.  I thought about talking to you, getting your opinion, but…”

      “You were worried I would forbid it.”

      “Basically.  I know you’re concerned about me and only want what’s best, and, also, this has been very, very hard on both of us.  You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever known, but sometimes…”

      “I can overstep my bounds?  Be a touch controlling?”

      “Well…”

      “Now is a time for honesty, my love.”

      “Alright.  Sometimes.  _Sometimes_ you can be that way.  It’s always because you want what’s best, but yes… there are times I think you forget that I’m a great deal better now and can make the decisions about my welfare.  In the beginning, no, and as I was healing, there were still times my own stubbornness got in the way of clear thinking and I appreciate that you were willing to push back and take charge so I didn’t do myself any harm.  I’m able to do that for myself now, though, love.  Yes, I know there are still going to be occasions when I’m making a ridiculous mistake and I expect you’ll make an issue of it, but only to discuss.  To argue, to fight… all of that is fine.  But you can’t forbid me to do anything, Mycroft.  It’s my life and, ultimately, when I’m in my right mind, it’s me who has to make the decisions.  You’ve taken the burden for that when it was necessary and I love you for it, but I can shoulder it myself now, I think.”

      “I do worry, Gregory… I worry _constantly_ , but you are correct.  It is your life and, ultimately, your responsibility to see it lived the way you choose.  But, I hope, I hope desperately, that you will seek me out to discuss matters of importance.  I would dearly love to provide any assistance I am able to help you analyze your options and make the choices that are going to bring you what you desire.”

      “I will!  I promise you that I will.  And I want you to do the same, though my brain isn’t as enormous as yours.  It’s what couples do, talk things out and see things from both points of view.  It was just… this came up rather quickly and… and I didn’t want, what with guests and Christmas and the like, to have this particular discussion, but I did plan to have it soon.  Are you… how mad are you?”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to smile, though he made certain to insert a slight trace of censure to chide his partner for the rather serious agitation of nerves he’d experienced since he received Sherlock’s text.

      “I am not angry, at least, not at this point.  I admit I was _somewhat_ angered that you were putting your health at risk and doing so without any consultation whatsoever with me, let alone John and Sherrinford, but, in truth, I was… I was scared for you.  I could not bear the thought of you again being here, in hospital, for reasons that were not so, shall we say, jolly?  And which could end in a fate that I dare not imagine for it haunts my dreams with sufficient frequency, as it is.”

Lestrade reached out and stroked Mycroft’s cheek, remembering well the nights he woke to the sound of tiny, terrible noises as his lover suffered in his sleep.  But, they were fewer and farther between of late and that was another blessing he was happy to count.

      “And I’m sorry for that.  I truly am.  I had hoped that you’d find out tonight with everyone else from the inevitable hours of video and thousands of photos that Arthur and his duly-designated representative, which would be Martin, would collect about our fun and… that you’d see it was all fine and not be too upset about matters.  I should have realized that Sherlock would immediately tattle out of spite for being dragged into the festivities.”

      “I believe there was also a very real worry about your health.  Sherlock detests demonstrating his concern in kind and considerate ways, but he does revel in showcasing his affection in the most irritating and trouble-making manner possible.”

      “That is very true and I believe you’re absolutely right.  For that, I won’t put those ultra-hot peppers I love into his food tonight, so he gets to feel the fire going in and coming back out, as well.”

      “I am certain Doctor Watson will also appreciate your consideration.”

      “I like to be efficient with my consideration.  So… forgive me for not telling you?”

      “Of course, if you will forgive me for giving you cause to conceal your intentions.”

      “There’s no question I will.  There’s nothing to forgive, really, because I didn’t talk to you about it and it’s right and proper that you’d be upset learning a thing like that.  That’s a lesson learned for _me_ , though, I promise you that.  Now, I have to finish my Christmas duties and if you have the time, I’d love to have you stay and help us make some little ones happy.”

      “Must a costume be involved?”

      “You’d make a gorgeous, sexy elf, but I think you can serve in a more supervisory capacity and direct things so that I don’t collapse in front of the little buggers and make their Christmas one to remember in a very bad way.”

      “I believe that is an excellent alternative.  Shall we begin?”

      “If we don’t, I think Arthur’s going to burst from anticipation.”

      “For _that_ , I do thank you immensely.  It is a superlative experience for him, one I know he treasures.”

      “My other reason for volunteering.  Nobody can out-elf someone who I suspect is actually part Christmas elf already.  Alright then, here I go.  Watch me shamble.”

      “My eyes are firmly affixed on your gait.”

      “That’s not my gait.”

      “It is involved in your gait.”

      “My arse is only marginally involved in my gait.”

      “However, its marginal involvement is duly appreciated.”

      “Randy thing.”

      “Something we might explore later in greater depth, perhaps?”

      “Oh, that’s a certainty.  And with all of this today combined with the celebration tonight with the family… I’ll be completely weak and helpless.  Defenseless, even, for whatever a randy gentleman might fancy.”

If the lust that lit in Mycroft’s eyes grew any brighter, they’d blind half the hospital staff.

      “How utterly delightful.”

      “That it is.  Happy Christmas Eve, Mycroft.”

      “Happy Christmas Eve to you, too, my dear.  Shall we make a start?”

      “So we can end sooner?”

      “You read my mind.”

Mycroft leaned in and kissed Lestrade’s nose, fussing a bit with the stray pieces of artificial hair that seemed to find him as enjoyable a victim as the man wearing them and their brethren.  His Gregory was a prince among men.  Courageous, compassionate, tender-hearted… the fiery libido and boundless bedroom creativity was simply icing on the exquisite and highly flavorful cake…


End file.
